


The Last in a Long Line of Mistakes

by SableSunday



Series: Pokémon Husbandry 101 [1]
Category: Pokemon - Fandom
Genre: Anal, Anal Impregnation, Apparatuses, Bondage, Breast Milking, Captivity, Drugging, Egg Impregnation, Egg Laying, Feeding, Multi, Oral, Oviposition, Pregnancy, Pseudo-penis, Seedbed, Sentient Pokemon, Suction Play, prisoner, stockholme syndrome, stuckage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableSunday/pseuds/SableSunday
Summary: You've had enough of the life of a casino desk clerk. One conversation leads to several sleepless nights of research, an unraveling of a cipher, and... The terrifying introduction to the world of bug type Pokémon husbandry.
Series: Pokémon Husbandry 101 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538329
Comments: 1
Kudos: 61





	1. A Step In the Wrong Direction

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Welcome to my first ever post on AO3! I'm always looking for feedback, but I'm also a sensitive little shit, so please be gentle with me. :) I'm not gonna sugarcoat it for you- this work of fiction is full of some seriously mature themes and obscure kinks. Check the archive warnings, tags, and notes (like this one!) before you dive in! I wouldn't want to make anyone uncomfortable without them having a fair warning ahead of time!

You aren’t going to fool anyone. The moment you step beyond the threshold of the Pokécenter’s boarded front doors, you’re not met with the dilapidated entryway that should be there. You’re not met with dust and webs and broken furniture. What consumes the entirety of your vision is a room much too small for the vastness of the building you know you just pushed into. Frankly speaking, it’s a bit claustrophobic- you can barely stretch your arms out before your palms might touch the walls.  
Crisp material- was it wood? It was hard to tell- lined the ceiling, floor, and walls inside, making it almost impossible to see what color it was since you couldn’t see any light inside. _Wellll_… Maybe there was a little light. Adjusting to the dark confirmed it. A faint seam in the wall directly in front of you emits a dim radiance, and after a moment of dithering- should you inspect, should you just forget this whole stupid idea and go back home to sleep- curiosity gets the better of you and you approach.  
And you knock.  
And there _is_ an answer.  
The little seam opens with a swift jerk, and out from its depths wafts a scent that fills your nose. Musk. Sweat. Heat. It’s so pervasive that you almost don’t notice the masked person staring back at you. You feel the urge to jump back in alarm, but there’s not much to be alarmed by. The man (woman? androgyne?) doesn’t say anything, and the gaze they have is disconcerting the longer you remain under it. They’re expectant, as if you’re to give them something. Show them something. _Do something_.  
You aren’t fooling anyone when you hand over the series of Pokéblocks that are coded for what’s to come next. The person on the other side is receptive, and waits patiently for you to stack the blocks in their hand until nine in total are handed over, and when the last is exchanged, the woman (androgyne?man?) seems to wobble. Disjoint. Disassemble into a gummy pink blob with two beady eyes and a narrow indent that served as the mouth now eating the blocks you’ve so provided.  
They were a Ditto!  
Unnerving to say the least, but not so much as the door that slid open to your left, opening into another room about as well lit as the one the Ditto occupied. The Pokémon shoos you with the gesturing of its pseudo-limbs, and you hurry to obey. This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? It’s why you came to this place.  
The next room is only sparingly furnished. Two lockers stood in one corner, one labeled _Personal_, the other _Uniform_. Beyond those two narrow doors, the next door you were presumably supposed to go through stood to your right, waiting for your compliance with the dress-code. Whether or not you’re shy, there’s no going back without making a fool of yourself, so you slip out of your clothes and stuff them in the first locker, and go to open the second.  
It was a cruel joke, that nothing was inside the _Uniform_ locker when you tugged it open. Or, not really _nothing_, per se, but close enough to nothing that it might as well be. A dense blindfold- more appropriate as a mask worn for sleeping- was all that hung from a hook inside, and as you run it through your hands, you consider seeing if you can move on without it. Best not test the patience of whomever owned this secret place. You move to the next door and don the blindfold.  
You can feel more than hear when the door opens. Hot air spills out again, filled with the same primitive stink that met you when you gave the Ditto-person the coded blocks. A gruff voice, however, meets you this time, and you jump when you first hear him speak. “Hand out.” Too nervous, or maybe not nervous enough, you oblige and extend one hand. Cool fingers snatch you by the wrist and turn it over so your palm is facing up, and there’s a momentary push of a thumb into your forearm…  
And a bite, deep into the crook of your elbow.  
Do you pull away and risk whatever’s just done that possibly doing worse? Of course you do. It’s instinct. The man’s grip is strong, though, and you can’t escape the sting. It’s thankfully brief, actually. A little pinch’s worth of pain, and then nothing. And then the smell from the next room doesn’t feel so out of place. And then you feel warm in spite of the chilly night air you’d just come from.  
And then you’re led by the hand into the next room. Blind as you are, it’s hard to tell where you’re going, who’s in the room(s?) you’re being led through, or whether or not you’re about to be carted off to Team Rocket for their more illustrious underground dealings. “Stop.” It’s the man again, and he pushes a firm but not unkind hand to your chest just as your toes bump up against something hard.  
“You know what you’ve just signed up for, right?” he asks. Of course you know. You listened to all the right conversations. You watched all the dark-web videos. You learned the cipher. Heck! You made the damned Pokéblocks yourself! _Of course you know_. All it takes is the one dip of your chin. “Settle in then,” the man grunts, leading the hand (it’s a mighty soft and warm hand, you’re noticing more and more) he’s still got you captured by down to a rounded shape in front of you. His grip recedes, and you can hear his footfalls doing much the same, leaving you to come to your own grips with what’s in front of you.  
You run both hands along the cushioned shape for several seconds, particularly smitten with how soft and how inviting it feels, then wondering why _that’s_ the kind of thing you’re concerned with in the present situation you’re in. Your heart should be hammering in your ears, but instead it’s steady in your breast, barely faster than the rush you get from battles. You’re fine, except for the fact that the room smells _wonderful_ and this strange piece of furniture in front of you feels like it’s going to be bliss to rest on.  
There’s an encouraging murmur from somewhere behind you, as a door whispers open and people begin to draw close. Now’s your cue to settle down like the man said. Carefully you lean forward over the flatter surface of the thing in front of you, and with an unsteady knee slide into place. You’re on your belly and your face, slung in an all-fours position that leaves much of the weight off your knees and hands, and instead on the furniture itself. You’ve not given your nudity much thought until now, because now your breasts are hanging free from some unseen cutout in the flat base, and your business end has been arched in such a way that there’s nothing left to the imagination for anyone who might be behind you.  
The heavy steps come closer now, and you’re lulled into a bit of a trance with their cadence. This makes it particularly easy for someone you hadn’t realized was close enough to touch you, to touch you. Their hands move so quick that you fail to stop them before your wrists are bound in place. You’re so warm now that it should be easy to slip free. You’re sweating, right? No. The panic comes quick, and like a captive Pokémon, you’re bucking against your restraints, but it’s no use.  
Panic strikes with the full force of a train, and it leaves you gasping when you realize your ankles have joined your wrists, and then something around your upper back has completely removed your ability to escape. You know now that you _have_ fooled someone by coming here. You’ve fooled yourself. The talk of captivity wasn’t just fluff text to bait you into feeling risky. You’re really not going to escape here. “Let me go!” you scream, so suddenly that it feels taboo, even now, when you’re in the throes of being held against your will. The more you panic and jerk against your restraints, the hotter you feel.  
The more you notice the smell in the air and the _softness_ of the self same restraints you’re bound by.  
The steps are close now, and you can hear a sibilant breathing somewhere behind you. It sends chills racing up your spine. The cool should be a relief, but given the circumstances, there’s no possibility of it while you’re unable to leave. “You forgot the mask,” someone says to your right, and you feel one slide into place around your face- or, more aptly, the cushion that supports your blindfolded face.  
Sickly sweet air fills the closed-off space, and you scream again, writhing against your bindings. “LET ME GO!” Strangely, you can’t hear yourself that time, and when you say it a third time, not only can you not hear it, but you can feel your voice soften. Your lungs are tickly, your tongue feels fat in your mouth, and a prickling sensitivity works itself outward to your extremities, from your chest outward. Just as you start to hyperventilate, whatever’s in the air they’re giving you, whatever was in the shot they put in you at the door, whatever those things were, you’re losing the desire to panic so much. It’s still there- you _can_ hear your heart in your ears now- but it’s so much harder to make your limbs do what you want them to when every rub of the cushions and cuffs is the best thing you’ve ever felt on your skin.  
“You didn’t hook up anything, did you?” the same voice interjects again, drawing a bit of your attention away from the sensations, back to reality. Beneath you, underneath the strange saddle-shaped furniture you’re bound to, you feel someone brush against your breasts. You’re unable to wriggle away, strapped at the back as you are, so when both nipples are fitted with some sort of suction devices, and then the rest of your breasts become supported by cups that also hook into the thing you’re laying on, you can’t protest.  
Not that you would, anymore.  
The suctioned devices on your nipples begin to pulse almost as soon as the person near you moves away, tugging in tandem with each other in a way you know is meant to be arousing. Because it is. It’s an insistent tempo, and it doesn’t stop even when you ask it to, for no one can hear you inside the mask. It’s just you now. You, and the machine that thinks you’re a Miltank. That is, until you remember the susurr behind you. The very same noise that, as you try to focus, realize has been there even while you were being hooked up like an animal.  
The breathing there has picked up. It sounds needy. Recollection flares brightly in your mind as you remember the next part to come. You’ve read the stories. You know all the ways this can go.  
To either side of you, you feel a heavy impact against the furniture you’re bound to. The whole of it jerks forward with the weight of whatever has just mounted it, and you can feel a hard warmth pressing in on both sides of your ribs. That’s all forgotten when you feel a finger slide between that aforementioned business end you were worried about being bared for the whole room to see. The exploring digit bumps and slithers between your lips, sending little ripples of fear-laced pleasure up into your belly when it inevitably grinds against the hooded bundle of nerves, or slips a few inches inside you, unwelcome and unprovoked.  
All at once this is too real, and even with the drugs in your system, in the air of the mask, you’re crying, soaking the blindfold with your tears and bucking against the restraints with all the strength you can muster.  
“Wait! Hold up.”  
Was someone coming to put a stop to this whole thing? Had someone noticed you weren’t willing to go through with this? You feel the finger recede from within you, and you hear steps approach again. “Do I have to do literally _everything_ myself?” the person says nearby, and with a frustrated grunt, presses a suction fitting over your clit. _No_, you realize with that act. No, no one was coming to your aid.  
The weight to either side of your ribs hasn’t left, and no sooner has the suction cup on your clit joined in the synchronized tugging from your nipples, than has the slippery finger wormed back between your flushed labia. The labored breathing has moved, and it’s only now that you’ve noticed. It comes hotly against your neck, causing the hairs there to prickle and stand on end. Small presses against the skin there are warm now, and feel like little pinches, which feel unmistakably like hickeys when left alone. You’re trying to make sense of it- the thing that’s leaving these marks, when the answer comes in the form of a breathy moan, all tucked up against the back of your ear.  
“_Scolll… Scoli-peeede…_”  
One of the largest Pokémon you’ve seen, let alone heard of, looms over your bound and drugged body, leaving toxic little love-bites all over your neck, and you can only surmise that the finger still rubbing at your entrance is anything but a finger at all. It didn’t make sense that _that’s_ what this Pokémon was, though. _You’ve read all there is to know about this place_. They don’t _have_ Scolipedes. Or, at least they shouldn’t.  
It’s leaving achy, tingly little bites all over your neck, cheeks, and shoulders as it worries its tapered tip against your folds, and even though you’re so very close to hyperventilating your way to unconsciousness, you can feel the pleasure that’s coming from the ministrations. From the pulsing suction at your nipples and the same at your clit. All three have already caused some sincere engorging of the flesh there, and both erogenous zones are flooding with sensitive information that’s leaving you wetter, needier, more pliant by the minute.  
What’s worse, is you know that the Scolipede knows it too. It can’t hear you. No one can. Not even you can hear the subtle moan that escapes your lips when it finally becomes more pleasure than fear. You can’t tell how long it’s taken to get that far, but either the Pokémon is well-trained, or it’s been more than twenty minutes that both the sucking machines and the nudging, nibbling bug type have been working you over, but it’s only _after_ you moan that the suction stops. That the biting stops.  
You’re covered from cheeks to the middle of your shoulder blades in tantalizing little welts that send shivers across your scalp whenever the air shifts, and even though the machine’s stopped, both nipples and your unhooded clit are throbbing with enough residual aching pleasure that it doesn’t matter if they’re off. The Scolipede, meanwhile, straightens its weight over you, and you can feel the narrow end of its appendage drag up through the cleave of your lips, and plunge into you. It’s so smooth you might not have noticed had you not been huffing an aphrodisiac for the past twenty minutes, but the member works all the way into you, just as slight at its base as it is at its tip.  
Maybe this won’t even be a problem.  
Maybe you’re just a test subject, and they’ll let you go when the Scolipede finishes.  
For an indeterminate time- what feels like hours (but is only another twenty minutes or so)- the Scolipede is still, neither pulling free, nor softening within you. Only the discomforting smell of the drugs in your mask reminds you that this isn’t literally the most comfortable position to be in, ever. Only the abating throb of your swollen nipples and tortured clit keep you company. Well that, and the little hose that snakes up into your mouth and begins to fill your mouth with fluid. For those dragging hours (minutes) you feel only the dip of your throat as you mindlessly swallow the rather bland concoction, drinking from it until you’re satisfied… And then drinking some more because the mask started to fill up with it and choke you.  
When the hose retreats from your lips you feel overfull. Sore in your belly. In your breasts. In your whole torso for that matter. Then the machine starts up again, suckling at aching nipples, pulling at your tender bud down between your legs. You were so occupied with the sensation of fullness from the fluid you’d been given, that it’s only with the change in stimuli you take notice of the fullness you feel from below. Unaware because of distraction, you now feel the tingling up high inside your core, as if someone’s been pressing at the backmost part of your depths. It’s not unpleasant, but mixing with all the other feelings that you’re experiencing, it’s less unpleasant than you might think, given the circumstances.  
The Scolipede’s panting above you, and it’s then you also realize that it’s still there. Of course it’s still there. What else would be giving you all the weird feelings in your loins? But it’s panting and heavily so. Drool splatters across your skin, hot and wet as it trickles down the groove of your spine and settles in the small of your back. You’re kind of confused, more full than you have been in a while, drugged almost out of your mind, and though the pleasure from the machine’s diminished, it’s well on its way to climbing back to when you let out that moan a while ago. But none of that makes sense as to why the Scolipede sounds like it’s about to lose its fucking mind.  
Ten minutes pass this time, before you begin to pant yourself, and a creeping heat starts into the lowest ebbs of your loins. At first you think it’s metaphorical, but the way the Scolipede sounds almost rabid now, how it’s painting your back in a steady stream of sticky saliva, you quickly surmise it’s something more. But you’re not feeling a whole heck of a lot inside, beyond the warmth. Until you are.  
The Scolipede lets out a frustrated grunt, and then you can feel something bump up against your engorged lips, wedged between your occupied depths and the carapace of the bug type occupying them. It grunts again, and you can feel it move its body back from you a couple inches, and when it comes back down flush against you, it’s like a switch has been flipped.  
Your heart’s in your throat, your ass has fallen off, and you’ve melted out of the restraints, dead on the floor. There’s no other explanation, because what’s actually happening is too much for your drug-addled mind to cope with. You can feel yourself achieve orgasm the moment the insistent bump pushes beyond your dripping entrance, and the Scolipede fights your spasming muscles with huffing breaths and short little thrusts in and out of you, until the knot pops all the way in. Between the sudden stretching, the torment at both nipples and your agonized clit, what other choice do you have, but to unravel at the seams?  
It’s not enough for the stomping Scolipede, however. The first bump has made it inside, and you suddenly feel a second one kissing against your spread labia. The Pokémon works this one inside with the same method as the first, bucking against you in short humps until, with another jolt that sends you careening into a second orgasm, you’re stretched to capacity and the knots are all the way in. When you’ve come down from the blinding pleasure, you take note that they must be the size of tennis balls, though by their feel they don’t seem uniformly spherical.  
At capacity as you are now, when the third knot swells against your splayed entrance, the Scolipede whistles with its fury. You’re too small for its knobbly cock now that it’s swollen to size. Fear begins to creep in when the Pokémon starts to buck and thrust anyway. Was anyone going to stop this? Your absent moaning becomes screams again, despite you knowing no one can hear. It won’t fit! It won’t fit! You’ll tear before the Scolipede can fit himself in! And yet…  
A simultaneous series of feelings overwhelms you again. First, you feel something deep stretch uncomfortably. Then, there’s the flooding warmth as liquid inside you is displaced, and gushes in uneven rivers down your thighs, sticking to you in goopy rivulets. Finally, even as the fluid you didn’t even know you had in you rushes out, it’s temporarily stopped up by the shove of the third knot down into your accommodating canal. Now you’re the one panting, strained to the limits by this ordeal, and only coming to terms with the situation amid an abrupt and constant orgasm that feels like it has no start, let alone no end.  
The bug type is laying its eggs in you, and has prepared your womb as its incubator. With the slowness it had taken in those early minutes of penetration, it had prepared your innermost reaches so that when the time came to bury its clutch inside you, you would not feel pain. And by the third egg that slips beyond the breach and into the come-swollen reaches of your womb, you don’t feel anything but the blinding climax that racks your body for all its worth. Three. Four. Five, and more. When the Scolipede finally exclaims the achievement of its own release, it’s laid a total of nine eggs inside your waiting belly, and it spasms a series of penultimate thrusts in you that reacquaints its eggs with a fresher, hotter flood of potent sperm.  
Your body wants to go with the Scolipede when it tugs itself from you a bit, and in the throes of your constant, frantic orgasm-induced screams, you can feel the Pokémon’s cockhead form a seal around your dilated cervix. No longer a tapered slip of a tip, its four-petaled cock-head suckled against the entrance to your womb, tightening the flesh there even as the Scolipede stomps its feet again, and seems to have its second, more powerful peak. You can feel a hardness take form there inside you, can feel your stomach weighed down by drink and brood and seed, and then- despite all your reservations and fears- you mewl in protest as it finally slips free of you in your entirety.  
You’re bare to the room again, and the machine’s ministrations stop the torture to your abused clit and nipples, but does that even matter anymore? You don’t need to see it to know that your stomach’s distended inside the accommodating thing you’re still strapped to. You _feel_ pregnant. Dazed, disgusted with yourself, and more than a little terrified, you realize…  
**You are pregnant**.


	2. Clutching Your Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've stepped into the world of illicit Pokémon Husbandry, and you can't turn back. Your captors won't let you. Burdened with heavy responsibility, what can you do now, except see it through to the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! This chapter came out fast, huh? If you're reading this later than its publish date, then it's not a surprise to you, but I'm posting this only an hour or so after the first! And honestly, I have the first four chapters done, so they'll be the entry point for all the first-come, first read people. No matter when you're reading this, thanks for stoppin' in, and do let me know what you think! As always, please refer to the tags, notes, and archive warnings, and please... Be gentle with me in your comments. I'm an easily wounded little smut goblin.

You awake from a nightmare. It’s not well formed in your mind when your eyes pop open and you suck down a startled breath. Even as your heart races, you’re already forgetting what exactly it was you were scared out of sleep by. Something about a heavy stomach and the respirations of a bug Pokémon you can’t remember the details of. Pushing up onto your hands, you try to will away the grogginess, only to feel the terror from your nightmare come rushing back when you recognize your surroundings. The memories fill in all the blanks, and you’re gasping in the bed you’d been sleeping on, tears threatening to brim over before you’ve been awake for more than five minutes.  
The room’s barely large enough to fit the mattress you’re sitting on. It’s not even really a room, either. More a jail cell than a room. Just enough room on the longer side of the bed for you to stand, and a toilet-sink combo that’s made of cold metal at the foot of it. There’s no shelves for your clothes- not that you have any- no window for you to see through. Only the door that sits directly next to the toilet, where someone’s come in every four hours on the dot, to strap you down and pump you full of the same strange fluid they fed you when you first showed up.  
The walls are concrete. The floor is concrete. The ceiling’s concrete. Hell, the door, toilet, and blankets might as well be made of concrete, since everything in the room is the same drab, boring gray as the room itself. That’s not the problem though. The problem… The one you’ve been wrestling with every day since you were blindly led into this room… Is the distended bulge of your stomach. What should have taken you nine months to gain has only taken you the week you’ve been locked up in here, and it’s been terrifying. It’s been maddening. The air smells the same sickly sweet as the mask they put on you when… When _it_ happened… And that’s not helped with the already impossible situation you’re in. You’re tired. You’re bored. You're _horny_. And you’re so visibly pregnant that it’s any wonder you haven’t popped.  
You’re like a Pokémon in a shelter, only no one’s going to come adopt you. And you volunteered for this, didn’t you? You knew- at least in part- that something like this was going to happen. And still you left your cushy job at the casino, still you hung up your pokéball belt in that locker, and still you made those Pokéblocks. Pushed the doors open to that “closed” Pokécenter. And signed your life away. What you didn’t sign up for, and what you hadn’t known was going to happen, was what’s swollen your belly and engorged your breasts to overflowing. You’d thought that maybe they’d have you pose for a round with an Arcanine or an Electrike. The conventional ‘mons for those who liked to walk on the wild side.  
But one hour was all it took for you to see how wrong you were, and you’ve paid for it every second since.  
You’re sobbing by the time the door slides open, and you begin to panic all over, knowing by now what was coming. “No…” is all you can manage to meekly say, because it’s exhausting being here, and you’re exhausted from reliving your first hour here, and you’re just plain exhausted by the weight of your own body. A man sidles in, tube and fluid bag tucked up under his gray jumpsuit clad arm. He’s gentle enough when he pushes you back down onto the bed and straps you down, but he doesn’t make eye contact, and he doesn’t speak no matter how hard you try to reach him. He’s only there to make sure you drink every last drop from the bag he’s holding up.  
Unlike the mask, where you risked drowning if you stopped drinking, it’s only a matter of time until you either drink the stupid liquid, or you piss yourself in bed. And while the notion of them having to clean up the mess is tempting, you’re far too embarrassed to go through with it. So you drink it down again, and by the time you’ve finished your belly’s starting to churn. Each time they leave you overfull and sick to your stomach, and like clockwork, an hour or so after they’ve unstrapped you and left you to digest, you go to the bathroom.  
Today, however, feels different. Maybe it’s the crying you did, but after you’ve gone to the bathroom, the urge doesn’t stop. There’s a roiling in your abdomen that comes and goes in waves, but no matter how hard you try to relieve yourself, it doesn’t help. So you return to the bed with nothing else to do but feel the discomfort, and you lie down. Unable to rest on your side, though, all you can do is lay on your back and pant- which you do. You count your breaths for a while to try and distract yourself, but before long you’ve hit almost double the breaths as there are in seconds, and you know something’s wrong.  
Awareness hits you at the same time as a shock of toe-curling pleasure-pain. Fear of the what-ifs has gone by the wayside, and you’re arching off the bed as a gush of hot white liquid spills out from between your legs. There’s a modest relief of the pressure in your belly, but you hardly notice it between the steady coming jolts of pleasure working up your bent spine. Nor do you notice the door opening again, letting in four men that crowd around you, and begin to grab for your extremities. Only when one of their hands brushes across your chest do you consciously notice, and that’s only because the sensitive buds of your breasts tip you over into the throes of an almost-orgasm.  
Something stops you just short of actual release, and you let out a frustrated grunt as the four men carefully move you onto a gurney and slide a blindfold over your eyes. You should try to make an escape when you feel them roll you out of your room, but there’s no way you can walk, let alone run with the way you feel. Torn between the pushing pain that you know is your body trying to _give birth_ to Pokémon eggs, and the effects of the drugs you know they keep pumping into your room’s air… There’s just no way. So you writhe atop the gurney as they wheel you left and right, and you groan in frustration as you feel no relief- be it pressure-wise, or pleasure-wise.  
The men are moving you off the gurney again, and each mistaken touch near any of your erogenous zones is only a further reminder that you haven’t come yet. That you’re on the bleeding edge of an orgasm so powerful you’ll probably die from it, and yet you never make it there. They put you on your knees and guide your hands down, but it’s only when you feel your belly touch the soft cushion that conforms to its shape that you realize where you are again. “No…!” A declaration turned moan, you manage to wrench one hand free before the wind is knocked clean out of you, and you’re fully thrust back into the straps, your face is locked into the cushioned ring and put into the mask, your sensitive nipples and your sperm-soaked clit are hooked up to the machine, and they begin to suckle away.  
Surely all the new stimuli should make you topple over into release, right? You’d think that, but the peak seems to get farther from you, the more your body is forced to pursue it. You’re in the mask, and you can smell the sickly sweet drugs pouring in, and with the higher dose your brain goes fuzzy. Your legs feel tingly and numb. The pressure in your belly is increasing, but you don’t feel the pain so much anymore, only the sudden, violent urge to _push_.   
So your belly muscles band together…  
And you push.  
Too busy with the effort of it, you’re not consciously aware of the trickling feeling from your nipples, nor how it steadily increases to a generous flow with each suckling motion from the machines. You’re lactating, and quite adamantly at that, but all you can think about is the way your stomach churns, and how it feels like you’re trying to shove a bus out from between your legs.  
While it’s hyperbole, the reality isn’t so far off the mark. You hope you’re alone when you feel your inner walls suddenly stretch to their limits. You hope no one is around to see you jerk and buck in your restraints as you finally scream into the soundproof mask. The stretching sensation sends you careening into release, and you can feel the thing inside you that’s done it traveling down your come-slickened canal, and pop out from between your puffed up labia. You know that something’s changed about the egg you just birthed. Amid the white-hot shockwaves of your pleasure, you know that when it went in, it was only half the size of the one you just pushed out.  
_ And there were eight more to squeeze out._  
It’s almost… _Not_ traumatizing, the second and third egg coming out. They slip out of your womb with one breath, you come all over again, and with the spasming of your walls, they slide free without much effort. But when you start in on the fourth, you’re fatigued. One would think that repeated orgasms would be amazing, but your breasts are being milked until there’s nothing left to give, you’ve just had your whole muscle system wound tight enough to punch a dent in an Aggron’s steel hide, and _this is fucking hard_.  
By the seventh egg’s come-soaked shell has slid free, you’re left slickened with sweat, gasping for air, and parched for something to drink. Of course, when you _want_ something to drink, there’s no little hose for you to sip from, only the presumption that the last two eggs are what’s keeping you from… From… Well, you aren’t even sure if they’re keeping you from a meal, or freedom, or anything really. You only know that your body’s still urging you to push, and with an exhausted scream you oblige the instruction, hammering your head against the cushioned ring as another tiresome orgasm punches all the wind out of you, and the eighth egg pops out, immediately followed by the final one- that one you swear feels the largest of them all.  
The whole ordeal swiftly smacks you unconscious, and you’re left drifting for who knows how long before you are thrust from the blackness by a rush of heat up your arm. You jerk in your restraints involuntarily, and take note of the changes. It felt like seconds that you were out, but it must have been somewhere along the lines of a couple hours, because your belly’s reduced considerably in size- even after the ordeal with the eggs- and the machine’s no longer tormenting your breasts or clit. You’re still hazy with the concoction they keep you on at all times, but not so disoriented that you fail to gather the familiar noise of the Scolipede’s aroused breath.  
“No fucking way,” you snap inside the mask, terrified of what the Pokémon’s panting means. They honestly don’t mean to have it ravage you again, do they? The turning over of the machine and the return of its milking motions is enough of an answer. The Scolipede shuffles up onto the footholds to either side of your middle again, and you can feel the tapered tip twitch between your swollen lips. Your eyes roll in their sockets when you feel it slither into your sensitive depths, and your knees tremble with the fear of its full penetration. The Scolipede shudders all around you, but it doesn’t slide further in. You can only feel a pressured squirt of its premature load painting your canal before it retreats.  
Footsteps to your right make you tense up, but whoever- or whatever- it is that’s there isn’t around for you. They’re doing something with the Scolipede, and when the steps retreat, the Pokémon above you dips its head to your neck and croons. While you’re abused by the machine, the bug type riddles your neck and upper back with the same stinging, bruised bites as last time, each little nibble to your flesh left to ache while it made another. And all the while, you’re prodded by its finger-thin tip at your entrance, bloated with its excited precome, and bloated again by the hose that’s shoved into your mouth.  
Only after the hose is tugged away from your lips again, does the Scolipede stop its appreciative love-biting. You’re feeling well on your way back to the rounded belly from before, but you’ve resigned yourself to being filled again. You can’t escape, so you imagine it’s best to just… Maybe wait until you can actually _see_ a way out. When the dripping tip of the Scolipede’s cock slides up and makes a surprised plunge into your rear end, however, you scream with the same terror that you screamed with the first time. The Pokémon chitters against your ear in what you think might be platitudes, but its carapace slaps against your round butt all the same, and you can feel its thin member this time. There’s less numbness in your backside, so with each throb and twitch of the Scolipede’s sex, you match the gesture with a shriek and a thrash in your restraints.  
It coos against your neck again, buggy breath coming in short, sex-crazed rasps, and it tugs free of you completely, only to jam its full length back into your now-lubed rump. It does this several more times, until your thrashing from fear slows down, and you sag into the furniture again. The Pokémon must know you’re disoriented and drained, and has used this to inure you to its abuse. You’re not here to feel pleasure- even if that’s exactly what you are feeling, intermingled with everything else. You’re here to incubate this bug-type’s eggs, and to entertain its sexual needs.  
And with each of its narrow prick’s thrust all the way into your guts, you can hear its needs being met. The Scolipede’s only making short chirps now, and you can feel its tip starting to bloom inside you, raking your deepest reaches with its flared petals. You’re jarred in your bindings when it abruptly hitches its breath and crudely piston-fucks you, and before long… You’re moaning too. It’s impossible not to, with all the stimuli you’re under. Sure, your belly is sore with exertion, but the drugs… The machine… It’s so easy to give in, and this time, you do.  
“Scolipeeeede!”  
Chitinous hide collapses down all around you, and its prickly manipulator digits squeeze you in a hug as a sordid heat wells up inside. The Pokémon is coming, and with the flare of its cockhead stanching the flood from escaping out of you, all you can do is drown in the feeling of being full, and the orgasm that follows, succumbing to the black again.


	3. A Shot in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you given up hope yet? It would be easy to, wouldn't it? Just when you think you've been left alone to rot from boredom, someone shines a light into your life again, and you're introduced to some lovely new friends. They're just dying to go over their notes about Husbandry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -waves- Hello again! Hope this little blurb finds you well. Check the warnings and tags, of course, and welcome to the next chapter! It gets pretty heavy from here on, and this is where some motivations begin to bloom. Yes in fact! Smut CAN have story too! Leave love if you enjoy this, and as always... Be gentle with me. Thanks and have a good'un!

It’s been three weeks since you laid your two clutches of eggs. Four since you made the mistake of entering this place. Tossed back into your concrete box, your captors at least had the good graces to change your bedding out before they locked you in and seemingly tossed away the key. In that time you’ve been given nothing to entertain yourself, and every hour, on the hour, you’ve been accosted by men that hook you up to a pumping machine, and for twenty minutes they milk you for all your breasts can provide, and then sweep back out without a word. They’ve at least had the decency to switch your food to something more solid, but the hourly calls are driving you mad.  
Your nipples hurt. Your chest hurts. But worse than that, you’re so tired that sometimes when they steal away your breast milk, you sleep straight through their ministrations. At least then you’re dreaming of things more pleasurable and less… Invasive. Less terrifying. With nothing to do beyond that, though, you’ve thoroughly lost it. You’ve exhausted all the songs you can remember, and when humming them wasn’t enough to whittle away the time, you began to whistle them- and poorly. No one ever came to shut you up, so you assumed the jail cell of a room they’d put you in had to be soundproof- or else there was no one near enough to the door to hear you. And then you moved on to just straight up singing, which was only worse than your whistling.  
You’re on your back, dozing, when the door opens and men shuffle in. These are different than the pair that had just come and gone some twenty minutes ago, and one of them has the blindfold in their hand. It’s been long enough now that you could almost pretend the Scolipede had never happened… But it all comes back with the thrum of your heart in your ears. They slip the mask over your eyes despite all your protesting, and when you dig in your heels trying to stop them from taking you, one of the men puts his mouth near your ear. “Cooperate, or we will get the Slugma.” That’s all that needs be said for you to lose all the fight you had. You’d proven capable of handling the Scolipede, but if they tried the same thing with a Slugma, you can only imagine the kind of pain that would cause.  
You shudder at the thought as they lead you blindly through the place you’re being kept, and you do your best to keep calm and stop the thumping in your ears. It can’t be helped, though… As much as you sound like you’re enjoying it while being railed by the bug type, you come away feeling traumatized and exhausted. After several stops and starts through the corridors, you finally end up where they intend for you to go. Hands from both sides guide you down onto… Your butt. And then they’re leading you backwards, into the shell of a chair that leaves your lower half raised up, and your weight supported mostly on your upper back and shoulders. When you’re settled, the hands move to your legs, and you can feel them strap thick bands around your thighs, locking them apart and spreading you in open display. Much the same happens with your arms- tugged by the wrists, you’re forced to have them bound in place behind your head.  
This doesn’t feel safe. Not that the first situation had, but this… The soft of your belly is exposed, and you’re spread in such a way that you blush with a whole new kind of shame. The men’s footsteps recede momentarily as you consider yourself, and when they come back, you do a mental eye-roll at the suction cups placed over your nipples, and the fittings they work around the rest of your breasts. It’s not like they’ll get anything out of you- they only just finished this half an hour ago. Tops. When an oxygen mask is placed over your face too, though, mild confusion sets in. Your whole face is covered by the mask- as was typical, it seemed- and the sickly sweet begins filling your lungs. You inhale deep even though you want to start hyperventilating, and the flush across you swiftly shifts from shame to… Begrudged arousal.  
Try as you might to deny the aerosolized drug, it’s more effective on you with each dose, and you quickly feel all your extremities flood with heat. You can’t help but notice the absence of a suction cup on your hooded clit. You’re just coming to terms with it when hot breath washes over your mons, causing you to flinch from it on reflex. The heat comes in rapid little bursts, and apprehension flares when you hear “Scoli~” murmured in time with the breath across your lips. You’re shaking your head in protest, but the heat-stricken bug type doesn’t appear to care. Its crescent-face brushes the length of your cleft, and when its small mouth reaches your shielded bundle of nerves, it clamps down around it, promptly sucking with insistent ministrations.  
The drugs are doing wonders in inuring you to this invasive sensation, and it’s amplified with the machine kicks on, adding more tugging to the motions the Scolipede’s inflicting on you by working over your aching breasts and engorged nipples. To think… A month ago you had a boring ass job in the casino, dispensing game tokens for the chance machines that so many people- trainers and otherwise- were addicted to. One wrong conversation eavesdropped on, and you’ve found yourself here. The Scolipede seems eager to please, but you’re having a hard time enjoying it because you can feel its poisonous saliva doing funny, numbing things to your clit, and when its drool runs down between your labia, the numbness follows.  
You’re not sure how long the bug type chews away at your nerve-packed bud, but when it comes away with a sticky, wet pop, the plucking sensation sends a nervy jolt up your spine. The Pokémon whistles and whines against your venom-slicked folds, and it catches you unprepared when it dips the tip of its whole face into your waiting depths. More of its numbing saliva seeps inside, but when the Scolipede pulls out, it’s not by its own choice that it’s done so. You can hear men guiding it away despite its plodding protests, and you’re left alone with the strange feelings the toxins inflict.  
Someone else approaches you a short few minutes later, when you’ve been reduced to drug-addled panting and the machine can’t seem to pull more from your breasts. The suction cups are removed, and you can’t help but curl your toes as they slip free. Surprise registers only as a phantom when another suction cup is fitted over the whole of your femininity, and confusion follows suit when it doesn’t pulse when turned on. Moderately strong suction pulls your lips flush with the cup’s shape, and you can only faintly feel the tingling it causes. You’re left this way for several long minutes, occupied only by the noxious fumes inside the mask, and the hose that presses into your mouth, dispensing the same liquid as before.  
When both the hose and the last suction cup retreat, you’re not left overfull, but you can feel your nethers are swollen. Puffed up by the sustained vacuum they’ve been under. The numbness has diminished, but it’s not altogether gone when you hear a door open and heavy wheels roll across the concrete floor. Curious through the drug-addled haze, you strain to hear breathing, but all you can hear is the wheels, and when they stop somewhere between your legs, you wonder what it is that could be there.  
“Ferrothorn?”  
You can tell that voice is from a Pokémon, but you’re not well versed in every species there is, so you have no frame of reference for the creature querying at your pronounced hole. A voice, projected from what you can only assume is an intercom system, responds to the Pokémon’s question. “Yes. Take a look yourself. Smell. That’s definitely Scolipede.”  
“Ferro… Thorn.”  
Its raspy voice is disconcerting, and the hint of something feminine in it only makes you more wary. You’re clearly not a Scolipede, and you try to say so, but your voice makes it no further than the inhibiting mask pumping your lungs full of drugs. Something very round and very cool presses up against your swollen lips, and you can feel the intake of breath there, as well as the exhale when the Pokémon grunts its skeptical approval. The chilly flesh retreats, but only momentarily. The wheels sound again, and scoot closer until you feel the chair-thing you’re in jostle with its proximity.  
Blunted, frigid points poke into your breasts, and at the four-pronged centers, you feel an icy ring take hold of your milky buds, and wet heat coil around the sensitive tips. “Ferro…” the Pokémon rumbles, and begins to pull and knead and suck, working with an insistence against your abused nipples until the pain of it becomes pleasure, and you sense that you’re providing supply again. It’s dizzying on its own, but not enough to ward off the fear of the unknown that this _Ferrothorn_ brings. When four chilly pokes brush up against the inner part of your buttcheeks, you know exactly why these delightful sensations aren’t enough.  
Because it can’t just be about your pleasure.  
It _never_ is.  
A cool, rounded tip of something hard butts up against your toxin-lubricated pucker, and with a few testing prods against it, the cold appendage slides right on inside. Unlike the narrow cock that Scolipede has, whatever this Ferrothorn has is _thick_. It has a tapered head, but nothing so slight as the bug type, and this new Pokémon has texture all over. Large bumps cover the entire length that’s thrust up inside you, but that’s not all that’s different. Once there’s no more to shove inside, you become aware of it moving. Untwisting. One thick cock(?) splits into three smaller ones, and while the distention from their wriggling isn’t painful, you’re vividly aware of the stretch that it’s causing.  
You’re even more aware when the Ferrothorn begins to pant and moan, and it’s hard to mistake the sound. Even though it’s more gruff than your own voice, the Pokémon is making the same noises that you did when you were about to push out the Scolipede eggs. You know you’re unable to escape your bindings, so all you can do is clench your toes when the Ferrothorn looses a shuddering bark and you feel all three pseudo-cocks unload inside your rear. The suckling to your breasts becomes spasmodic, stopping for several seconds, before resuming to a painful degree, and all the while you can feel _something_ taking up space where this Pokémon’s ejaculate should be.  
It’s cold though, the sensation that’s making the Ferrothorn go buck-wild somewhere over you. Your guts are laden with a chilled weight that makes noisy clattering with each erratic thrust the Pokémon shoves into you, and when it finally seems finished with its release, you’re very aware that you’ve gained several impossible pounds with its expense. The Ferrothorn’s still moaning deliriously, but it plucks all three of its strange limbs from you, and for a beat you think it’s over. When your legs are forced farther apart, swiveling into a locked position as wide as you can manage them, you’re less sure about that fact.  
Metallic skin presses against the inside of your thighs, blunted points at uneven intervals plucking at your sweat-soaked flesh. The Ferrothorn has wedged itself up against your puffed up lips, and the chill is making you shiver. It’s stopped moaning now… But the Pokémon’s respirations are shallow. Fatigued, even. When it holds its breath, you do too, until both of you let loose a tandem groan as you feel the full breadth of your canal invaded by an appendage that resembles the same one it shoved into your rear. As the single limb splits into three, you feel the motion jostle the load in your guts, and can briefly connect the dots as to what it’s left inside you.  
Rounded egg-shapes roll and bump up against one another in your stuffed rump, their resonant clinking indicative of their composition. This Pokémon must be a Steel type, because that’s the only explanation for the heaviness. You’ve just come to that conclusion when you feel the three narrow pseudo-cocks wedge up against the entrance to your womb, and when they do, you freeze in place, breath held in anticipation of severe pain. All you _do_ end up feeling, though, is a brief bump of pressure, and then the Ferrothorn is unloading into you again.  
When all is said and done, the Pokémon has stuffed your belly to a dull roundness, and you’ve not managed to come from it either time. Even with the drugs, with the stimuli to your breasts… The Scolipede’s venom has dulled your pleasure senses and left you a frustrated mess as the Ferrothorn makes its retreat. This, of course, isn’t a problem. If anything, reducing you to a sobbing, soggy mess is the worse option of the two, and you’re almost grateful when you hear two sets of footfalls return to the room.  
You’re less grateful when you feel the tilt of the chair change, and your body becomes more evenly parallel with the ground. And when you feel the brush of bristly fur against your sides, where twin impacts shake the chair you’re restrained in, you lose all notions of gratefulness. Something else has mounted you, and though it’s not stuck its bits against yours yet, you know it’s an inevitability. Something bumps against the mask on your face. Bumps again, which dislodges it from your features. When it hits the mask for a third time, the whole apparatus gets knocked free, and with it comes the blindfold.  
“Gogoat!” Furrowed brows darken the carmine eyes of the Mount Pokémon, and it butts its head against your brow, to which you suitably groan in protest.  
“Stop!” you snap, turning your face away. “Stop it. Go away!” Now that you have the opportunity to speak and be heard, it’s almost enough to revitalize your desire to escape. You start bucking and writhing against your bindings, but the Gogoat braced over your lower half doesn’t seem amused by this. It bleats and stomps, but you pay it no mind. Not until vines emerge from its back and coil around your head do you pause.  
It jerks your face forward, and while both you and the Pokémon are face to face, it chuffs indignantly. “Gooo-_goat_!” it declares, as if you’ll understand, and then shoves its mouth against yours. No matter how you try to twist away, there’s no escaping the grip it has on your head, and against your will you succumb to the ministrations of its long and sinuous tongue. Hooves stomp to one side of you, and while it thoroughly throat-fucks your face, you can see just as much as feel the Gogoat shimmy up your body, preparing.  
Stunning feelings begin to work into your system as the Pokémon makes out with you. A feeling of attraction, even. Ideas flood your brain, of stroking the Gogoat’s fur, of feeding it its favorite foods, of riding on its back in open fields. You have no reason to think these things, except that you’re becoming enamored with the Mount Pokémon. It knows it too, as you start to reciprocate the tonguing affections with your own messy movements. Soon enough, you’re gasping for breath against its soft lips, and wet heat soaks the cleft between your parted thighs. The Pokémon seems to sense this of you… And the state of your internal affairs… And bucks its hips in impatient anticipation.  
A flared crown finds the wetness of your folds with ease, and it presses you wide when it shoves inside. The Gogoat isn’t patient or gentle like either previous Pokémon. Its breeding of your body is rapid-fire, slamming furred groin home against your engorged mound with a breathtaking speed. It mouths at your chin as an afterthought, and for some reason you’re compelled to oblige the prompt, leaning your head forward to kiss it once again. Together you’re both a drooling, mewling mess that soaks your chest as much as its crotch fur. And you’re climbing towards the first orgasm you’ve had in almost a month. It feels… Exhilarating. You won’t admit that to yourself of course, but then again you won’t have to. Your tightening loins are evidence enough to convict you of the accusation.  
The Gogoat’s thrusts are growing more violent, and its lengthy cock pops free with each retreat. You’re close to release, and so is the empathetic Mount, so when there’s an accidental slip from your front to the tightness of your rear, it’s any wonder that both you and the Pokémon both unravel at the seams. The Gogoat’s prick reaches well up into the clutch of steel pods the Ferrothorn left inside, and though they’re both incompatible Pokémon, it still readily paints both you and the Ferrothorn deposits in a thick, impossibly voluminous load of come. You don’t spare the Gogoat your own release, drenching its crotch-mane in the orgasm that’s left you gasping for air.  
If only you could pet the Pokémon.  
It did such a good job.  
_ What are you thinking?! _It had done a good job in raping you, yes! … Right? This _was_ rape? You’re not entirely sure anymore. Coercion, maybe. But you’re the one blubbering out “Good boy” and “Good job, Gogoat” in spite of yourself. The Pokémon shudders as it tugs its softening member from your rump, and when you see a door open to your right, the Gogoat reluctantly heads for it. A part of you withers and dies when the door shuts behind it, but you’re not left alone long enough to mourn. A door to your left is opening, and for the first time… You can _see_ the Scolipede coming.  
It's more than nine feet tall from head to floor, and that’s not including the antennae jutting from its brow. Larger than other members of its species, it towers over you when it gets close. Big amber eyes peer down at you, a fever in their depths, and you can see a flush tinting the span of their sable cheeks. “Scoli~,” it croons, dipping forward to nuzzle its face to yours. When it does, it stops short and sniffs at your mouth. Features darkening, the colossal Megapede swings its head around the room as if searching, then dismounts the chair you’re in to wedge its snout into your labia to sniff again.  
The Scolipede lets out a furious whistle and ruts at the concrete with its forelimbs, and you feel very… Very unsafe quite suddenly. It sniffs at your come-stained folds again. Still terrifyingly grim-faced, whatever it found in that second sniff seems to lessen its ire, and it mounts up onto the chair again, one hoof-shaped foot causing the chair to flatten completely, and it presses its abdominal carapace up against your mons. With all of your body now available to savage, the Megapede Pokémon riddles your skin with little love-bites that bruise then go numb, from beneath your chin all the way down to your belly. It doesn’t even spare your breasts, and it spends laboriously long minutes at your nipples, chirping in delight when its suckling nibbles come away with milk.  
You’ve had long enough to come down from the Gogoat’s induced orgasm, but the numbness from the Scolipede’s poisonous spit makes the milking of your breasts less a daunting experience, and more a pleasurable one. Your eyes drift shut as it drinks of you with gleeful hums, and by the time it’s sipped up the last your body can presently provide, you’re struggling to keep the moans behind your clenched teeth.  
The carapace up against your swollen mound splits open and its member rubs up against your slit, your eyes pop open and brows knit in confusion. Wasn’t this the same Scolipede from before? The way its breeding appendage feels when it emerges from its shell and wriggles up into you makes you think that… No. Somehow, this is a different one. The shape of the cock that’s coursing up towards your battered womb is much thicker, and its tip jerks with an extendable second-shaft. All along it you can feel irritating itchiness set in, and when the prick tugs backwards a bit, all your muscles clamp down in protest.  
_ It hurts!_  
It’s not terribly painful, mind, but you know something isn’t necessarily right by the sensation, and you can’t exactly ignore it. Or… Well… You wouldn’t have been able to, until all the itchiness and the pain that came after just… Melts away. First to numbness, then to mild pleasure. You realize, as the Scolipede chitters in its own bliss, that it must have some form of secreting barbs along its cock, and when it breaks the skin, the toxin gets into your system. It thrusts up into you again, and when it inevitably retreats, this time there’s no drag against your pleated depths. Only the unnatural singing of every nerve-ending inside there, coming alive all at once. When it jams its full length up into you for a third time, you feel like you should be coming, but you’re stopped up right on the edge.  
Vaguely aware of the little jolts of pain from deep inside, you’re familiar with some degree of what’s going on now. The Ferrothorn’s already bloated your womb with its heavy, small eggs(?), and the Scolipede’s double-length cock is capitalizing on the softened entrance left in the other Pokémon’s wake. The second half of its prick worms up into your womb, and by the time the Scolipede has begun dumping its load into you, you’re already twisting and squirming beneath it, your whole body spasming in time with every sticking rope that you can feel hit your innermost walls. You were subtly plump before the Gogoat and Scolipede, but between the two of them you’ve become bloated with all the deposits made.  
When the Megapede slithers out of your womb, it mirrors the other member of its kind and the cockhead splatters the entrance to your distended core with a clot of hardening stickiness that prevents you from losing any of its virile seed. Aware of the same mixture in your backside, when the Pokémon recedes from your cleft, it locks off your abused pucker with the same knot of fluid. You’re only semi-conscious now, and pay no mind to the long-term effects of that action… The only thing you’re paying attention to is the residual waves of trembling pleasure working from your belly outward.


	4. Settling in for the Long Haul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're learning so much about yourself here- and about Pokémon Husbandry, for that matter. You've gotten to know some of the regulars, and even made a friend, so now it's onto the big leagues. And maybe a big breakthrough!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there dear reader! Check the warnings and tags, and leave love if you got some to spare!

It’s only been three hours since your encounters with the Scolipede, Ferrothorn, and Gogoat. You’ve been unstrapped, blindfolded again, and lead on a meandering walk through corridors. This time when you’re put into a concrete cell, the room is modestly larger, and the Gogoat they… Paired… You with is lying on the cot, dozing. Or it was dozing, before you were tossed inside. When its eyes open and their cherry red hues settle on you, it lets out an elated “Gogoat!”, scrambles to its feet, and hops off the bed to your side.  
It’s only been three hours since your encounters, but your belly’s stretched out more than you thought possible, and you can barely stand without something inside you shifting or churning. You have the violent urge to relieve yourself, but something’s pressuring you to hold off, so despite the inklings, you lay down instead. The Gogoat follows with a curious braying, clambering back up onto the bed with you, nearer to your feet. It’s impossible to lie on your side- this much you recall- so you sprawl out on your back, and spread your legs wide so that the Gogoat has room between them to curl up. It does so without your insistence.  
You don’t have much time to enjoy the air before it’s flooded with the same sweet stink of the mystery drug they keep you moderately high on, but you don’t really think they considered what it might do to the Pokémon in the room with you. You certainly don’t think anything of it until you feel its tongue lay open your labia with wide, sloppy strokes, but you’re too bloated by everything already inside you to protest the Gogoat’s ministrations. If anything, after the exercise from the three Pokémon from earlier, the gentle, constant stroking is a pleasurable sort of relaxing.  
The Mount Pokémon makes a mess of your nethers from fuzzy mound to stoppered up rump, its heady panting an arousing noise in spite of your rounded predicament. When its tongue dips inside to taste the state of your internal affairs, it lets out a strained groan and burrows its slippery muscle as far inside as it can reach. _You’re_ somewhat used to the drug’s effects by now, but the Gogoat’s slowly dipping into madness at the taste of your scraped up quim, and before long the Pokémon’s spindly cock presents itself at full mast. You’ve no idea how it fit inside you now that you can see it- its easily the length of your forearm, and while it’s only the girth of your thumb, its crown flares to thrice that size.  
The Gogoat bucks its face in haphazard laps against your swollen lips, jerking its tongue into you over and over in attempts to taste all of you… And then its coming, splattering your leg, your belly, the bed, in spurts of hot seed. Even so, it bleats against your sopping heat, and fails to stop until you gently bap its face away. While it grudgingly obeys, it isn’t done entirely. On trembling legs it rises, plodding off the bed to crowd the corner of the room nearer your head. Trading off your musky cleave for the attentiveness of your mouth, the drug-addled Gogoat plunges its tongue beyond your lips.  
The same feeling from before starts to creep into your brain, and it’s just as well… That urge to _push_ is mounting in the muscles of your stomach. For now you can distract yourself with the fuck-drunk Gogoat and its strange effects on your mind, delving into the warm notions of caring for it, even as you vaguely see the Pokémon jerking itself off with the velvety soft coils of its own vines. While you’re lip-locked with the stupid thing, the masturbation is… It’s hot, right? The Gogoat’s getting off to you, and that’s both flattering and… Yeah. Hot. Even when an ill-timed spasm of its own ministrations leaves your chest painted with the Gogoat’s second, more powerful release, all you can think of is… _Fuck, that’s hot_.  
But it’s getting harder and harder to enjoy the sloppy kissing, as the knotting pressure in your stomach has swiftly become too much. You break the kiss with a turn of your head, and all the Gogoat can do is bump its head against the side of yours, and stupidly work itself to orgasm again, and again, and again. You take solace in the rapid breathing in your ear, and feel something dislodge from inside you.  
The world becomes white-hot as the twin clots the Scolipede stoppered you up with come _un_stoppered, and you're punched in the belly by your own orgasm as Gogoat seed and Scolipede seed come rushing out of both your holes. Without realizing it, your hands are all over the Mount Pokémon’s horns and face, and each time you brush your palms to its horns, it trembles with its own climax. Again. Again. Again with every touch. Somewhere, a random fact bubbles up to the surface of your consciousness, and you recall that Gogoat horns are their empathetic connection to their trainer. Each time you touch the segmented spires, the Gogoat succumbs to your pleasure as well as its own…  
You can’t manage to care either way- the horns make fine handles and you need them for what’s to come. The Gogoat’s stopped working itself off, it doesn’t need to while it’s connected to you, so as you feel some of the pressure abate, and your orgasm dwindle a little, the Pokémon beside you just twitches in your grasp, empty of seed but still full of the same blinding pleasure that’s about to overtake you again. Remembering how the Scolipede eggs went, you brace yourself with a gulp of breath, and _push!_ Through the second climax that knocks the wind out of you, you notice that the eggs from the Ferrothorn have grown. Similar to the Scolipede ones, they’ve doubled in size, but are still nothing compared to the size of the first clutch you… Well, that you laid.  
From both holes you manage to deliver a rush of the things, but it doesn’t feel like the first push has relieved _any_ of the weight inside you, so you push again, and for longer. More come spilling out in wet, popping droves, and you sit up on one elbow to see… To hope that _that_ was enough headway towards finishing. When you do look, however, you’re firmly aware that this isn’t even half of what’s still inside you, but what’s more? There are two different egg patterns in the mess of come you’re in. Both kinds look oblong in shape, their shells segmented in three parts, but one half of the clutch has mauve patches while the other half of them is painted in a veined pattern of green. You’ve no idea what that means, nor do you have the time to ruminate on it, as you’re knocked onto your back by the resurging urge to evict the remaining eggs from inside.  
You’re working on pushing the eggs out when the Gogoat bumps against the side of your head again, bleating a pitiful noise at you. As another wash of the clutch slides free and you’re momentarily struck stupid by the pleasure, the Gogoat seizes its chance and mounts the bed over your head, shoving the flared tip of its cock into your wide open mouth. The member is unwelcome, but you’re not quite capable of protesting with the current heights of your climax, so you’re left to consider the taste of the come-stained prick bobbing along your tongue… And it’s not entirely bad. Earthy. Kind of like a salty tea.  
Despite your better judgement- not that you have much left in the first place- you press onward with your laying, and let the Gogoat fuck your mouth. You’d thought the Pokémon had no more left in it when its vines retreated, but it turns out, you’re more than wrong, and you have the pleasure of finding out amid the deluge of eggs slipping free of your body. The Gogoat groans in quaking satisfaction, thrusting its cock spasmodically down your throat, and splatters the back of your mouth in rope after rope of salty-hot seed. You’ve no choice but to swallow, lest you accidentally choke, so you suck down every pulse of its loins, and even go so far as to encourage the dregs out when there’s no more that flows freely.  
Between the Gogoat’s release and the coming of your own, the last of the eggs slithers free of your quivering depths, and the Pokémon tugs free of your mouth, leaving you to babble helplessly in the throes of your final peak. It’s while you’re distracted by this climax that the door opens again, and men swoop in to steal away the immense clutch you’ve laid. They’re ginger with the handling of both you and your fresh-laid eggs, but they clearly seem more interested in the clutch than you, the person who has laid it. They sweep in and out in a matter of moments, leaving you to drift into the abyss of exhausted sleep.

* * *

You aren’t bothered again for another three weeks or so, except for the hourly pumping of your breasts, and the meals that come every four. The people that hold you captive have the kindness to at least change your bedding after the whole ordeal, and they leave the Gogoat with you as well, after their attempts to retrieve the Pokémon leave one man with broken ribs. This decision has left you in much better spirits in the quiet hours, and… When you think your captives aren’t watching… You and the Gogoat share intimacies in the dim light of the concrete cell.  
The connection between you and the Mount Pokémon has grown in those weeks since your most recent laying, and it only strengthens with each spill of its loins inside you. On its own, the Gogoat’s come does nothing to sow eggs in your belly, but the hormones in it spur on a surplus flow of milk from your breasts, and it takes delight in suckling your stores dry.  
By the second week, the exchange of fluids has made you both comfortable with being caught out by the men who come to collect from you too, and several times you’re stuck between the rapid-fire thrusts of the Mount Pokémon and the ministrations of the milking machines your captors latch onto your sensitive breasts. You haven’t lost the hope that you’ll get out of this place, but there’s no sense in making yourself miserable for misery’s sake, so you… Maybe feel okay in doing these grossly taboo things in order to pass the time. It feels good, too, so that makes it easier to indulge.  
When you think it’s just dipping into the fourth week since your last breeding, the men that blindfold you appear in the doorway, indifferent to the fact that the Gogoat’s in the middle of plastering your insides with seed. They wait until the Pokémon’s finished and has begrudgingly retreated to the bed to gather you up, slip the blindfold over your eyes, and ferry you off to another room somewhere in the place you’re being held.  
You’re taken aback when the blindfold comes off a few minutes later, revealing a double-sided glass pane. On the other side of the window, you see something that you’re not even entirely sure is possible. Are these Pokémon even in the ‘dex? Metallic fleshed Venipede and Skiddo mill about the room, vines jutting from their backs, laden with little spiked bulbs that some are utilizing to climb the containment room’s walls.  
An intercom crackles to life in the room you’re in, and murmurs in low, indeterminate tones. “Until trial testing with you, hybrid breeds of Pokémon like this were impossible. None of the three Pokémon that went into creating these hybrids are genetically compatible- and even if they were, their eggs would only yield a purebred of one of the parent species. You’re the first step toward a whole new world of Pokémon breeding.”  
Before you can say anything, the blindfold returns, and so do the hands that lead you. You’re almost numb to the revelation the intercom person’s foisted off on you. What they’re saying is impossible. So much of this has been impossible. The conversation in the casino. The little breadcrumbs in the dark-web. The cipher you decoded that led you to make those specific Pokéblocks. The same cipher that pointed you to the dilapidated Pokécenter, and into the hands of these people. It’s all been an impossible story from beginning to end… Except it’s neither ended, nor even reached its middle, you think. You’ve only just given these people what they wanted, and even though you hadn’t intended on that, you know they’re not just going to let you walk free. Not when they have untold hybrids they can try out by impregnating you.  
A chill runs up your spine as the men leading you bring you to a stop, gingerly settling your knees into the cushions, strapping your hands into their restraints. How long do you think you can take this? How long before they pair you with a Pokémon that doesn’t have your wellbeing in mind?  
A door opens somewhere around you as the mask fits over your face, as the suction cups take hold of your nipples and clit, and begin to toil away at your nerves. The chill courses again as you succumb to the sweet-smelling drugs, and you hear from behind your bare nethers…  
“_Tyraaan-trum_.”


	5. Hivemind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're playing with the big wigs now! As if the first day hadn't already thrust you with one of them. But it's all smooth sailing until you meet one of the upper ladies. She smarts upon your introductions, and is quick to fob you off onto another of the larger supervisors. Thankfully he's got a kinder touch. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author here, as always! Check the tags and warnings, and enjoy!~ I'm having a lot of fun with this story, and I hope you are too! I do feel a bit bad that I have to leave this one on a cliffhanger, but it's already long as is, and I don't want to get ahead of myself with slapping ALL the Pokémon in at once. I hope this finds you well, and you have a good day!

Did you know, that a Tyrantrum’s bite can shred steel like paper? Because that’s a thing. And did you know, that despite Vespiquen having wings, the average Tyrantrum can outrun it at a distance? Maybe you knew these things before you made the mistake of coming here, almost two months ago now. Maybe you didn’t. What you _will_ learn, however, is that Vespiquen can lay up to a thousand eggs per clutch, and more than ten times that in a day.  
The Tyrantrum is awfully close to you before you hear its basso growl, and even though you’ve never seen one in real life, you’ve read about their discoveries, and you know how big they can get. Its breath is awash over your presented nethers, and you can hear more shuffling happening around you as it bumps the coarseness of its snout against you. Inspecting, the Dragon Pokémon rakes in a lungful of your heat, and the room quakes with its apparent satisfaction. You’re not letting this one happen without visible protest- Gogoat or not, you’re not capable of handling what these psychos are implying with this ancient terror nosing at your quim.  
You jerk and pull at your restraints, you strain your leg muscles in an attempt to break free, but it serves you this time about as well as it has every time before- which is to say, not at all. Nothing gives, nothing changes, and as more movement happens all around you, you can’t help but feel relief when the Tyrantrum’s rough maw recedes. There’s a faint noise somewhere, and you recognize another door opening. When it does you make note of the low vibrating that pours in at its behest. The air takes on a persistent rhythm. A buzzing. And its source moves with haste towards you, until the very surface of your skin tingles with the sonorous noise.  
Something noticeably warmer bumps up between your folds, spreading them wide with its smooth, rounded presence. You can feel more warmth brace up against your thighs and rump, and then fingers coil around your hips. Curiosity continues to be your downfall, because more than the clinical observation of your continued rape, you’re trying to parse out what Pokémon this is. Palms knead against your flesh, two pointed fingers work in tandem with the motion, and the buzzing. Oh, the buzzing. It’s a lulling, dizzying noise that worms its way into your ears, making it difficult to think- more difficult even, than with the drugs clogging your lungs.  
The wedged shape against your entrance trembles without provocation. You hear a hitched breath sucked down somewhere above you, behind you, and a strained, clearly feminine voice drone out a formless groan into the air. There’s tugging against the ring of your canal, and something moves out from the blunt warmth splaying your lips, wriggling down into you with a life that seems all its own. No more than a finger’s breadth, you might have considered this another Scolipede, if not for the hands and the lack of legs braced up at your ribs. When the probing appendage splays its tip against the knot of your womb, you have no time to hold your breath before it’s knocked out of you and you loose a scream that matches the pain that follows.  
Whatever Pokémon this is, it’s a cruel one, and it’s speared into your belly with no consideration to your comfort. You’re in desperate tears to be unmoored from this fate, and through the abrupt sobbing that overtakes you, you’re writing again in your restraints, unable to stop yourself because it hurts so much. The Pokémon, meanwhile, appears nonplussed to your despair, and between your protestations it’s found you satisfactory as well, and begun to pant and heave in shallow breaths.  
“Vesss…” It murmurs. “Vess… Pi-queeeennnn…” A Vespiquen. Of course. The bee queen Pokémon thrums with the beats of its transparent wings, kept aloft and secured to you by their insistent buzzing and the biting hold on your hips. It shudders against you while you are milked and tortured and weeping from the ache in your guts, and it shudders again when your walls spasm and clamp down, willing the Pokémon to retreat. Instead, you feel a hot knot of fluid course up the Vespiquen’s length, stop up against the narrow entrance of your womb, and burst from the tip beyond. It brings you no pleasure, does nothing to drag you out of the wrenching pain of your current predicament, only leaves your stomach feeling too hot for the rest of your body, on top of the agony already there.  
The Vespiquen’s breath stops up in its throat, and when you notice this, you too suck down a breath and hold it. “Ve… Vespi… Vespiquen!” Its murmurings pitch to a shriek, and it seizes up against you, butting its abdomen between your folds in futile attempts to rut you deeper. You hadn’t stopped trying to escape from underneath it, but when you feel the first pitter-patterings of eggs coalescing in your womb, you finally freeze and just… Hold your breath some more. Biding your time through the discomfort.  
You’re not sure how large the eggs are, but by how many the bug type is trying to push up into you, they can’t be more than a pea in diameter. The pseudo-cock engorges with the quantity it’s pumping out, and before long, your stomach’s engorged too, pressing against the cushion of the breeding chair you’re captive in. At some point the machine’s suckling motions stopped; you’re not sure when, but you’re glad when you do notice. But still… Still the Vespiquen’s bloating your womb with its clutch, and you can feel the panic start to crawl up your throat when you think about how you’ll survive when they grow.  
You must not be the only one to consider this though, because here comes footsteps, stopping short near to the straining Pokémon, and they’re pushing their hand up between your spread nethers and the ovipositor the Vespiquen’s laid up inside you. It trills in warning, chitters in frustration when the person squeezes off the root of the fleshy appendage, and skrees in petulant fury when the whole length is pulled free of your abused slit. Several of the small eggs dribble out of you, but that’s hardly worth worrying about when your savior instead guides the Vespiquen to your rear.  
There’s no womb to breach there, so when it eagerly obliges you _savior’s_ guidance, the stanched flow of eggs resumes without prompt. Unlike the trials of its vaginal escapades, the bumping, buzzing motions in your rump are not altogether unpleasant. If anything, now that you’re relieved of the source of the pain, you’re quite abruptly numb to it. All you can feel is the subtle pops that happen when eggs slither out from the Vespiquen’s tip, and how the addition further distends your belly in the chair.  
You hadn’t bothered to try counting the eggs, but when your savior returns to guide away the Vespiquen, you don’t miss the low-voiced confirmation they must be directing to an ear or mouthpiece. “Over six thousand, by the looks of it.” You can feel the color drain from your skin, and it flee right out of your toes when you think about that. _Over six **thousand**_. There’s no way, unless they’re indeed pea-sized… And even then, what’s going to happen when they grow? You’ll die. You’ll _actually_ die. Not the hyperbolic way, but the dead-in-the-ground way.  
By the time another door opens, you’ve hyperventilated your way into passing out, so you can’t hear the plodding steps closing in on you. Nor are you yet aware of the low buzzing in your womb and guts. You’re blissfully adrift in the hazy black when the Tyrantrum returns, and mulls over your honey-slicked backside with its rueful gaze. Unlike your previous encounters, this Pokémon circles your unconscious form before it chooses to partake, curling a talon around the hoses that lead away from all the apparatuses attached to you.  
In all the depictions you’d seen, the Tyrantrum had short, stunted forearms which looked- at best- vestigial. What coils around your bloated middle, though, is nothing of the sort. Your unconscious form is plucked from the chair after several people swarm the room to undo your restraints, and while you’re still as yet drifting, it moves through the room to where it can brace you on your back, raised up off the floor on a counter that looks- if only somewhat- level with its thighs. Both of its powerful hands restrain your body by your shoulders, position your slack legs bent up near your ribs, and tug your splayed body down to the ridge of its groin, where flesh parts to reveal the mating tool it’s intent on using on you.  
It seems a patient member of its species, content to work itself to full erection by rubbing its length between your folds. It’s just as the full mast of it starts to form when you find your way back to the land of the living, and you realize your situation has changed. Bleary eyed, you paw away the blindfold before you realize you’ve been freed of your bindings, and when your eyes slide open to the full-consumption of their view being the colossal dome of the Tyrantrum you’d heard before, you have to fight the welling urge to scream. Your breaths come in short gasps, and you’re close to knocking yourself back out, and the only thing that manages to stay you from just that, is the slow, repetitious glide of the Despot Pokémon’s cock through the flushed swells of your petals.  
Ever patient, ever considerate, this Tyrantrum seems to have waited for you to wake up before it sows your burdensome depths. Now that you _are_ awake, though, you only get a brief glimpse of its full size before it starts to work itself inside your battered slit. It’s not so long as the others you’ve had the misfortune to bed with, nor is it tapered like the rest. A rounded crown with blunted, fleshy spikes surrounding it disappears with a pop into your wet heat, followed by the fatter girth of its short, relatively mundane cock behind. It’s not long enough to breach your womb, but when it pulls free to work its girth back in a second time, the swifter plunge does make its cockhead bump against it- and that hurts.  
The Tyrantrum notices your wincing, and to your surprise, tries not to do it again, taking shallower thrusts to remedy your discomfort. It works itself in and out with a slowness that- so long as it continues to avoid bumping up too deep- is surprisingly pleasurable. The adorned crown works against your walls with a tantalizing insistence, and the thick of him grinds against all of your walls in all the right ways. It’s not until the Tyrantrum’s breaths pick up their pace and its bearded maw goes slack with its pleasure that you start to feel the base of its cock swell. Each time it pulls free and works back in, there’s more effort required on the Pokémon’s part.  
When it’s no longer able to push its full length inside you, the Tyrantrum growls low in its chest, frustrated. Its crown twitches inside you, and you can feel warm liquid dribbling out around its engorged root, but the furrow to its brow and its shallow, jarring bucks against your entrance are starting to pull you back from the edge of your coming climax. Worry starts to return as the Despot Pokémon becomes more needy. More demanding. Try as it might, it can no longer fit its full length inside, but damn if it doesn’t want to. It lets out a snarling “Tyyy-rantrum!”, then satisfies itself with what must be a compromise. Twin fingers on both its braced hands dig into the counter, firmly rooting you in place on your back, and its thrusts become turbulent.  
Quicker and quicker it moves, jarring you with every slap of its bulbous hilt against your lips, never quite reaching all the way in, so never quite slamming into the part of you that hurts most. The pistoning rakes your walls and grinds the Pokémon’s scaly underbelly against your machine-abused clit… And when the Tyrantrum lets out a strained roar, all you can do is join in. Its grip on you tightens, pulling you up off the counter so that the final, spasmodic bucks it rocks inside you add the angle that it do desperately needs. The Dragon’s distended root stretches you until you think you’ll tear, and pops into your depths, firmly locking you to its twitching length.  
You’re both at your climax, and for you it’s so strong that you don’t even notice the jolt of pain from the knotting- only the mounting pleasure that climbs you ever higher with each generous pump of the Tyrantrum’s load up inside you. It doesn’t bother with any attempts to flood your egg-stuffed womb by force; with the back-pressure from its immense release, the Tyrantrum’s roiling, unnaturally hot seed seeps into the nooks and crannies of your Vepiquen clutch, stretching your belly ever more as it continues to spurt and splatter and spit glob after glob into your knot-locked guts.  
By the time the Tyrantrum has stopped turning your insides a brilliant shade of white, it’s come down from the high of its own orgasm, and has resorted to kneading your nipples between its fingers. Milk runs free, but the Pokémon neither notices nor cares. It’s no longer frustrated with trying to breed you properly, and has resumed its doting nature, patiently waiting for the both of you to come untied at the crotch. In the meantime, it contents itself by torturing you.  
More than half an hour passes this way, where you’re hung down off the Tyrantrum’s knot onto the floor, groped at your chest until both you and the Pokémon are sticky with the mess it makes, and the whole time you’re aware that there’s still an insistent buzzing going on inside your bulging middle. The sensation becomes more pressing as you feel the Tyrantrum finally pop free, but there’s not much to be done about it. Not right now, while the orderlies mill back in and gather you up again.


	6. The Last of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a tough day at the office when you're introduced to the weird, new guy. Vacant eyes and a clammy handshake aren't enough to dissuade you though, and you both come away from the time spent rather satisfied- if not a little confused. But betrayal's fast coming, and it's not from who you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning here: There's a potentially gross little bit of detail at the very end. Some of you might not like it, so be wary! Anyway, as always, enjoy!

You’re not carried far off from the cool concrete floor the Tyrantrum’s left you on. Men in gray jumpsuits ferry you over to a bed you hadn’t really noticed in all the other times you were here. Close to the ground, its plush black surface conforms with a greediness as they set you down on your back again, and begin working to bind you in place. The position feels all wrong with your blown up stomach- while you can handle your arms spread eagle as they are, bound at the wrists, when the orderlies push your legs up so that your knees hover up next to your chest, all of the mess they’ve let the Pokémon pump up inside you feels very suddenly like it’s going to come right back out.  
So you tell them so. “S-stop! I’m gonna… I’m gonna fucking pop!”  
The two men who had you by the legs stop, then turn to query the others around you. The five of them all look unsure. The intercom system crackles instead. “Do it.” The men return to looping restraints at your knees so that you’re bent with your legs up next to your breasts, and you find all the vitriol you can muster in order to spit it out at them as you are forced to clench all your stomach muscles in order to not vomit from the pressure.  
When you’re positioned the way they want you to be, all but one of the men disappear through various doors, and he kneels down near your head, the blindfold in hand. “You’re not going to want to see the next specimen,” he says, as if that’s going to make you feel any better about the whole situation.  
“Fuck you,” you snap back.  
“Last chance.”  
Last chance, your ass. Your head whips to face him so fast that he’s startled by it, and despite everything you’ve endured so far, you’re all at once alive with a rage you’re sure he can see in your eyes. “Do your fucking worst, asshole.” Shaking his head, the last orderly takes his leave through another door. When it shuts, the lights abruptly turn off, and you can’t help but laugh. “What was the point of offering of you were just going to turn off the lights anyway? What are you guys, stupid?”  
Except, as your eyes begin to adjust to the gloom, you notice that not all the light has gone. Just enough remains so that when a door across the room opens, you can see the vaguest shape of something move through it, into the space with you. By its stunted height you can tell that’s the reason they’ve got you bound so low, but it’s alien gait throws you for a loop. Four harsh clacks on the concrete, but every now and again there’s a fifth, and sometimes a fifth _and_ a sixth. It’s a queer thing, but its anonymity only lasts as long as it remains at a distance.  
Whatever Pokémon they’ve scrounged up for you now is slow to its approach. Slow enough that you’re starting to resolve its features when it’s finally closed in enough to brush against your rump. Empty white eyes glint in the dimness, umbrella’d by the painted flesh of a colossal fungus growing from its back. _Parasect_. The symbiote Pokémon hadn’t even crossed your mind as a possibility until it was right there, hovering its peerless gaze at your nethers. You can say no to it all you like- and you do, for several seconds- but it isn’t going away, only turning around so that it can rest its hind legs across the backs of your thighs, and brace its forelegs on the floor.  
The details of its underbelly carapace are nothing short of horrifying, and your protestations quickly dissolve into tears and struggling. At its back end- the one that’s presently moving closer and closer to _your_ back end- squirms a series of eight wriggling tendrils that run parallel to the split in its shell. When the writhing appendages touch you, every part they caress begins to sting like you’ve been smacked… You can only imagine what that’s going to feel like when it finds the holes at your apex. The stinging doesn’t last long, but it makes enough of an impression on you that you don’t want to continue that you have once more plunged yourself into the blackness of panic-induced unconsciousness.  
The Parasect- or the fungal parasite that controls it- doesn’t much care about anything, not the least of which is the fact that you’re no longer aware of what it’s doing. The Pokémon continues to feel around the curve of your rear, leaving the stinging sensation of its touch in its wake. Numbness follows, but you won’t know that until you resurface. The Parasect’s feelers move at an easy pace, trailing up into the cleave of your hindquarters, until their blunted tips circle your pucker and leave it aching. Most of them remain there, worming inside and spreading your egg-laiden loins wide, but two of the manipulators go searching up through your labia, and push one of their lengthy reaches into your splattered canal while the other knots itself around your clit.  
You could drift in the dark forever, and indeed you try to stay there for as long as possible, but when your well-stretched rear finds itself straining to accommodate what the Parasect is trying to shove into your guts, you’re thrust out of the black and into reality again, feeling the full brunt of the patient pace it works at, inching its plug of a cock into your ass. You can feel your body stressed to its limits by this appendage, but where you anticipate pain, you honestly feel… Nothing. The Parasect doesn’t rush itself to climax, and the tendrils it used in the beginning have all seemed to disappear, so it’s just you two and the soda can’s thickness it’s slowly forcing your body to acclimate to.  
It’s been what you think might be half an hour when something starts to change in you. The Parasect has managed about three inches of its cock down into you, and it feels like it’s getting close to the end, but that’s not what’s roused your attention. The buzzing in your belly is what’s changed. It had been relatively even in its tempo up until that point, but for some reason, you abruptly feel like you’re the world’s biggest beehive. That’s not too far off the mark, truthfully. You’re just not into the idea of bees literally living inside you. Still, nothing hurts, and it doesn’t feel like anything has made the mistake of hatching _inside you_, but it’s still unnerving.  
What’s more is the fact that your clit feels like someone’s pressed a vibrator to it. You’re preoccupied with the buzzing in your stomach, but the sensation against your engorged bundle of nerves is harder to ignore- especially as time goes on and the stimulation only amplifies. Breaths come in shorter, heavier bursts as you inadvertently start the climb towards your peak. Your toes curl, your fingers ball into fists, and your chest swells with anticipation. You’re not even on the drugs anymore- it just feels so fucking good.  
The Parasect is still there, and while you’ve been picking up speed towards the proverbial cliff, it’s remained placid as it wedges the full if itself into your ass. Because of the new stimulation you find yourself under, you fail to notice that the Pokémon’s cock no longer has your rear entrance stretched to capacity. The rest of its shaft has tapered down considerably, and as it moves only slightly faster towards hilting inside you, the buzzing becomes so loud that you can now hear it. You can feel it in your teeth.  
It’s when the Parasect’s carapace finally kisses the soft of your cheeks that you are broken from your nearness to climax. There’s no shuddering from the mushroom Pokémon, no twitch of its member inside you. You feel it buried to the root… And then the Parasect dismounts without a murmur, snapping itself free from the thing it’s pushed into your loins. The Pokémon makes its leisurely way away from you, and yet you can _feel_ its cock… Thing… Still moving.  
Connecting the dots is a lot of work for you while you’re a pregnant incubator being abused by the sensory information telling you your clit’s being tormented… But it comes in waves between breaths. The shape of the thing it put in you resembles a _very_ top-heavy mushroom, with a bulbous head and a narrow stalk. The continued motion in you despite the Parasect’s absence isn’t hard to piece together either. The tip of the thing feels like it has tendrils too, and it’s seeking the violent buzzing only a short ways further in.  
At least you hope that that’s the case.  
You’re left with the spore inside when the lights flick back on and blind you, and the orderlies don’t bother to help you in any way when they sweep in and move you back to your cell. The Gogoat’s still there thankfully, and through your near-peak frustration, you still manage to waddle your heavy weight over to him before it registers to you that there’s something wrong with him. He’s on all fours on your bed, foamy bubbles at the corners of his mouth, and each breath he takes is short. Rapid. Concerned, you stroke the top of his head, but he doesn’t respond to the affection. Not until your fingertips brush the roots of his horns does awareness flash in his burning red eyes.  
The Gogoat bleats at you pathetically, bunting against your hand, then your arm, then your side. This is good news, if not a little annoying because you know what he’s trying to do now. The room is heavy with the stench of the drugs they keep you on, and between that and the Pokémon’s actions, you pick up what the poor Gogoat is putting down. “I can’t,” you murmur to him, trying to nudge him out of the way so you can lay down. He doesn’t seem to hear you, and rises to his feet on the bed, circling around to your backside where he bumps his head again. “I said no,” you repeat, gesturing to the state of your bloated middle. You think he understands this time, so you move onto all fours across the bed and start to turn to lay down…  
When you feel the Gogoat’s forelegs brace against the ridges of your hips, and his tapered prick slides easily up into your rear.  
You don’t even have the time to protest before your best friend’s betrayed your trust and is churning up all the contents of your rump with the pistoning clap of his hips ramming into yours. The Gogoat is merciless in a way that isn’t normal for his personality, and it’s not long before he’s streaming himself into you. It’s hard to tell amid the pleasure you feel in spite of this betrayal, but it doesn’t feel like his seed can move past the spore the Parasect left, but there’s enough room behind it that none of the Gogoat’s release spills out.  
You spend what feels like hours this way, the crazed Mount Pokémon making a mount of you, hammering away at your ass until you’re so bloated with his vertile seed that it _does_ start to escape. When he does finally dismount you, the two of you have shared so many mutual orgasms that stars pop in and out of your vision, and most of your lower half is drenched in his pent up stores. The Gogoat gives your business end an apologetic lick from clit to come-stuffed pucker, then shuffles around the bed to where your head is, and lies down on the floor, exhausted. Not so exhausted that he’s not lazily running a coil of his own vines up and down his shaft… But definitely enough to leave you to leak more of him when you try to move in any way.  
Do all the Pokémon that are in this place have the same urges? Were they trained for this? It certainly seems like they are. As far as you’d ever known before coming to this Arceus forsaken place, humans and Pokémon did not intersect in this taboo- even if there were plenty of illicit sites that promised it. There were never any news breaks about it, let alone whispers, until the ones you’d heard by chance.  
You roll through all sorts of different speculations while you dither on whether or not you want to try and roll onto your side. While you’re doing said dithering though, you’re broken from the thought process by the abrupt silence that comes when all the buzzing in your belly stops. The Gogoat perks up beside you, as curious as you are by the change, and you both make startled noises when most of the thin-running semen he pumped into you comes rushing back out. The quantity alone leaves you soaked across your torso and down your legs, but you’re honestly more concerned with why it happened in the first place.  
Your stomach churns and gurgles, and you’re afraid to move, lest it cause some sort of unintended problems. Your knees hurt. Your elbows hurt. The wet across your body is making you cold. And all the while your “friend” - if you can even call him that anymore- is watching you as he continues his self-gratifying strokes of his stick-thin prick. The roiling sensation melts into the feeling of being stretched again, and just when the stretching in your rump borders on the painful, you let out a short scream in surprise when you feel the spore’s bulbous tip pop. Stringy fluid spurts out at that, washing up into the clutch of eggs that were as yet unfertilized. With its immense payload shot, your inner muscles expel the empty spore with the remaining seed from your Gogoat, and no sooner than it’s free of you, than does the Mount Pokémon dispatch the wilted mushroom down its gullet.  
“Gross.” That’s all you can manage before you roll yourself over and pass out from exhaustion.


	7. Make Me a Sandwich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After delivering your most recent works, you're rushed to meet the newest muscle on the team.

The bastards in gray are strapping you down into a birthing chair three days after they let the Vespiquen, Tyrantrum, and Parasect rut you like a Ditto. There’s no bottom to this chair, which can only mean that the people who are using and abusing you must know that you’re soon to deliver. This time is different, though. Not only have they pulled you from your room to hook you into this seated position, where you’re bent slightly forward so there’s pressure on your bloated middle, they’ve stopped pumping your breasts since the impregnation, and now they’re almost as bloated as your belly.  
Rather than milk you the way you’re used to, after you’re strapped down so you can’t escape, orderlies ferry in a pair of Dratini and help them latch to your nipples instead. Your pert nubs are terribly sensitive to the ministrations, and while the dragon types are left on a surface to keep them from weighing you down, you can’t help but feel like they’re trying to suck the tits right off your chest, it hurts so bad.  
It’s not enough for your perverse captors though. You’re in a room with several other Pokémon in various states of coupling. While the Dratini toil away in delight at your bosom, a Volcarona has a Beedrill bound to the ground in a mess of sticky string, and tips of their abdomens are locked. You can’t really tell if the Volcarona is laying into the Beedrill or if its fertilizing, but it doesn’t really matter. By the time the Volcarona’s done, the Beedrill’s abdomen is distended, and its glossy eyes are dim. When the string shot that bound it in place dissolves, the weight of its abdomen renders it unable to fly, so it stumbles, trailing honey-like wetness in its wake, into a corner where it collapses.  
Elsewhere is much the same. An Arbok twitches in the grasp of a Goodra, paralyzed while the Dragon type holds it by the tail and works its dripping cock up into the Arbok’s slit. The snake Pokémon no more enjoys the penetration than the Beedrill did, and hisses meekly while its innards swell with the telling roundness of impregnation. You watch the Goodra work its massive length into the Arbok with disgust plain on your face… But you’d be lying if it didn’t also cause a little bit of moisture to form between your spread legs. It’s revolting to watch the Goodra stuff the Arbok with so much spunk, and yet, you’re still watching when it finally manages to slither away, and find a more suitable partner in the Nidoking propped up against a wall.  
What you’re not prepared for is the sudden tremble in your loins. Your begrudged arousal must have done exactly what the people expected, because you feel the urge to lay again, and there’s no bracing before your body starts to push. The Dratini pay you no mind and continue to drink, and you’re left to pant and grunt uninterrupted, to watch the Nidoking grow hard and pop free from his plates and do exactly the same thing to the Arbok that the Goodra did. The serpent Pokémon makes eye contact with you while it’s being used as a come dump, and it gives you a once over when it sees eggs start to dribble free from between your bound legs.  
You don’t even have the mind to blush or turn away as you struggle through your labor. The Arbok can watch. The Nidoking can too. Heck, all of the stupid Pokémon held captive here can stare for all you give a shit. All that matters right then and there is that you get the clutch free so you can go back to your room and sleep. Both sets of eggs within you have grown, but not enough that it’s hurt you like you originally thought. Vespiquen eggs must not form the same way, and you’re thankful for that. What they _do_ do, however, is form strange, ribbed pouches in you, so when they slip free it feels _incredible_.  
The first few cause your spine to arch and your toes to curl, but by the time you’ve got a third of your laying done, you’re moaning freely, quaking in the birthing chair from how impossibly good it feels. You’ve drawn attention to yourself because of this, and now all Pokémon eyes are on you. The Volcarona, the Beedrill, the Arbok, and even the Nidoking- though he’s presently more interested in working the Arbok up and down the length of his gnarled cock to focus too much.  
You’re about halfway through your delivery when you can’t manage to keep your eyes open anymore, and you’re washed away with your orgasm. The spasming it causes expedites your pushing for a bit, and you manage to sprint close to finishing when the air of the room seems to change. You’re gasping for breath when you feel rough palms wrap around your middle and _squeeze_. More than discomfort, it’s active agony that comes from the pressure, and the last of your clutch comes out in a rush. You see stars, and blink out of consciousness for several minutes.  
While you’re out, the thing that unceremoniously helped you labor out the last of your eggs gathers you up in their massive arms, pulling you free from the protesting Dratini and the straps on the chair. You’re carried away by your mysterious captor, ferried over to the lazy Nidoking, and splayed out for him to inspect. While you’re lolled back against the chest of whatever _other_ Pokémon that’s apparently in the room, the Nidoking scrutinizes both of you as it slows its bloating of the now-rounded Arbok. After a long moment where it looses another stream into the serpent Pokémon, the Nidoking finally pushes to its feet, slipping free from the Arbok with a wet, sucking pop.  
The Arbok scoots a few feet away and collapses, leaving you… Dangling from the hands of a Rhydon, the curious object of a Nidoking. Both Drill Pokémon have taken an interest in your blatantly fertile body. The shorter one in front of you grunts, pawing roughly at your breasts, then curling its claws around your chin to shake it. You’re jostled awake by this, and all the aches from birth stress come rushing back, and you groan lamely in response. The Nidoking seems satisfied enough with your semi-conscious state, and both him and the Rhydon ease you down against the throbbing tips of their cocks.  
When your aching depths mutually fill at once your eyes snap open in a primal stab of fear. It’s way too soon._ Way too fucking soon_, for them to breed you again. The last few times they at least had the wherewithal to wait a few weeks before trying again. _This_. This wasn’t even five fucking minutes! You squirm between their warm bodies, yanking at the grip the Rhydon has on your wrists, but it’s to no avail. The Rhydon bottoms out in your ass first, its conical erection almost as thick near its base as the Parasect’s was at its tip. You’re spared any thicker an invasion, as the Rhydon’s size abruptly withers at its root, locking you in place on its cone.  
For the Nidoking’s part, it slides up into your stretched cleft with the same lazy pace it took with the Arbok. It’s for the best in the end, since the Rhydon finds standing too much a chore. When it moves to sit down, both you and the Nidoking shudder at how swiftly its gnarled cock fills you to completion. In this position, you’re sprawled out on your back against the Rhydon, and the Nidoking can have its way with you… Which it readily obliges now that its rounded cockhead flares on the inside of your womb. It still has a few inches worth of mangled length to feed up into your aching depths, and with a satisfied grunt it begins to ram those few inches in and out.  
The Nidoking uses your legs for leverage, impacts off your thighs echoing in the room while the other Pokémon watch, and you can feel a familiar width take form against your swollen petals as you meekly sob from the pain. The Nidoking’s a potent partner, and its release is quick coming… But not before it forces the knot at its base up into you. Your belly hasn’t had time to tighten back up, so the colossal load it fills you with doesn’t escape- neither from your womb, nor the depths that clamp down on the knot. It splatters your insides with hot rope after rope, eyes rolling, clawed hands leaving scratches all over your legs. You feel awful, but the Nidoking’s gasping from the pleasure of your body, and it wedges its upper body over yours, mashing its mouth over one of your breasts so it can drink from you- as many other Pokémon have done before.  
Your stomach looks the round of pregnant again by the time the flow of seed has stopped, and you’re reminded with the shift of weight underneath you, that the Rhydon hasn’t joined in. It’s as much a curious note as it is terrifying- especially when you’re now tied to _two_ Drill Pokémon, and not just one. Ever so gingerly the Rhydon rose back up onto its feet, pushing the Nidoking onto its back in the process, and trading places with it in so doing. When all the repositioning is said and done, the Rhydon’s sandwiched you between it and the Nidoking, and its greater bulk is on all fours. With the shape of its burrowed cock, you can’t help but feel a scream bubble up your throat.  
_ It’s going to tear you apart_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, and a cliffhanger to boot! Be gentle with me please, this one was written at the tail end of my night! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please let me know! Thanks as always! <3


	8. Marooned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've taken on too much a load this time, but there's no way out of it. Sink or swim time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing special to say this time. Be gentle and enjoy!

You have no clue about how Rhydons mate with their partners. You’ve absolutely no idea what the shape of the Pokémon’s cock means while it sits firmly in your rear, locked in place. The biggest problem you’re facing right now, though, is that even if you _did_ know any of that, it wouldn’t help you. Knowing how this was going to play out would neither stop the Rhydon from brutalizing your behind, nor undo what already had been done by the Nidoking’s gnarled shaft still knotted in your slit, flared in your womb.  
Swollen to your capacity by both Drill Pokémon inside you, engorged to your limits by the load that Nidoking has stoppered up in your front, all you can do is babble a meek plea of “Please… Don’t…” against the Nidoking’s chest- the response to it being a chuff of Rhydon’s breath against your neck. It grunts as it adjusts its four-legged stance over you and the Nidoking, and after a moment of its deliberation, settles its toothy maw around your shoulder. You’re so sure that it’ll pierce your flesh that when it doesn’t, you’re momentarily too preoccupied by the surprise that you fail to brace for the thrust that the Pokémon slams against your ass cheeks.  
The wind is knocked out of you. The Nidoking’s knot is pulled free of you. Your bloated stomach, now free to flex and vacate the seed the poison type was keeping in you, readily does so with a gushing flow down against its cock. Both you and the Nidoking are affected by this abrupt change- you, for your sagging down against his chest as the swelling dwindles, and he for his freedom to rut you again, uninhibited by the lock of your nethers. The terror of the unknown never so much as diminishes beneath the grinding pleasure that the Nidoking’s cruelly textured prick provides- too much of the muscle aches of birth and the conical erection stuffing your rear rob you of your ability to experience delight at your present predicament.  
With the Rhydon clamped down to one side of you, Nidoking snares the tortured nub of the breast on the opposite side and sets to work draining you with greedy pulls from your teat. The roll of its rough tongue in tandem with the abrupt grip on your hips it has, it’s any wonder you don’t come apart when the Nidoking sets an aggressive pace within you. It’s not a gentle lover, and the Rhydon isn’t any better. At least the Rhydon isn’t moving, but you _can_ feel its cone-shaped prick swelling ever larger, ever more in line with the proper shape of a cock. That can only mean its release is nearing, but that hardly means anything to you.  
Nothing means anything anymore when both Drill Pokémon are grunting and chuffing against you, nor when the Nidoking plows back into your womb with a concussive _SMACK_ and follows it up with a slam into your entrance with the knot again. You’re back to square one with it turning your guts to a wash of white… Only this time you’re also coming. You hadn’t felt the creep back up to the climax until the Nidoking’s first shot up into you, but when it comes, you come, and then the Rhydon is coming too.  
Or, you think it’s coming. It’s hard to tell while you’re letting out gasps of protest that contrast with the way you’re contracting down on both erections deep in you. The Nidoking is like a fire-hose, and its release balloons up in your nethers with a familiar stretch. The Rhydon, however, almost feels as if its pushed an egg up into you. When you feel the base of its locked shaft shrink and the rest of its length in you appropriately come free in a rush of your muscles commanding its vacating, you’re vaguely aware that you still feel like the cone-shape of its erection is inside. As a matter of fact, when the Rhydon rises up off of you, leaving a mess of drool across your neck, you’re sure its done something akin to the Parasect- else a Rhydon’s eggs look much like its horn. The problem with that is you can’t lay an egg that big. Not without tearing.  
Future you will have to deal with it. All you can handle right now is the chilliness of the floor as the Nidoking gingerly deposits you onto your side, and meanders away in pursuit of the Beedrill resting in the far corner of your vision. You’re left there long enough to watch the bug type grow aware of the approaching Nidoking, wind up its wings in a futile attempt to flee, and see the narrow slit of its distended abdomen come down the full length of the Nidoking’s twisted haft. You get the full-featurette in HD while you lay there, slowly being surrounded by the flow of the very same Nidoking’s seed burble out from between your thighs.  
When it’s all over, the Beedrill’s bottom-most half is almost double its natural size and struggling to contain anymore. Its locked to such heights until the Nidoking’s knot pops free, and then they part- the bug type stumbling to the floor in much the same way you are, ensconced in the puddle of Nidoking’s seemingly never-ending stores of come. You would feel some sort of empathy for it… Except your all out of empathy to spare for Pokémon at this point. You just want to go back to your bed and bury your face in the pillow until the sobbing stops.  
Orderlies take form in the edges of your vision, ferrying off the stuffed Pokémon into doors that you have no knowledge of beyond, and then they’re ferrying you, tucking your eyes behind the blindfold, back to your own room where you can do just as you’d like- only after a thorough hand-washing of your battered form. When you’ve finished doing what you can to rid yourself of the evidence of your most recent breeding, you’re left with only the weight of what feels like a boulder in your rump. Rhydon’s participation award, it seems.  
You can’t manage to force yourself to relieve the weight from your body, so you collapse into bed with ginger movements, bury your head under the pillow and bawl your eyes out until sleep unburdens you of your stress.

* * *

Sleep is a blissful vacation every time you manage it, and it can keep you from the reality of your life for up to half a day. When you drift at the behest of your tears, you sleep for more than that today, and when you wake from it- starved and sore- you are startled by the sticky, cloying mess that you find yourself lying in. Your first thought is that your coy little friend, the Gogoat, has further abused your relationship by using you while you sleep. When you see him curled up near the head of your bed on the floor, dozing away, there’s no other answer that readily comes to mind. Not until you sit up anyway.  
Virile heat spills out of your tender rump, and the embarrassment is swift on its heels. There’s no modest way to alleviate your situation… But eventually you do, and when you’ve washed for the second time in less than a day, you’re finally clean. All you can think of as an explanation, is that the Rhydon’s method of breeding is strange. A deposit of a hard egg-shape, that dissolves or softens or something, sometime later. Strange, indeed. And not something you hope you have to endure _ever_ again.


	9. Burning Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here to make up for the short chapter previous, I present you a longer one! Leave love and enjoy!

It’s been a tumultuous three months or so, since you codified your imprisonment here with a simple handing off of those Pokéblocks. You can’t be sure if it’s three months and four days, or more, or less. Sometimes the hours pass by in such a blur that you don’t even recognize them anymore. There’s no window to gauge the sunlight. No clocks to assure yourself of the passage of time. You’re only measure of it is the hourly visits that the men in gray jumpsuits make in order to top up on your supply of milk- something you still can’t manage to get an answer as to why.  
Since the birth, the Rhydon, and the Nidoking, you’ve been left to heal without any other incidents. It left you bored and stir crazy at first… But when a tingling starts to set in on your hooded clit and becomes so insistent that you’re reduced to a string of orgasms that lasts for so many hours that even your captors are forced to come in and make you hydrate, you can’t help but succumb to it when the feeling abates, then comes back again a day later. For a week you’ve been like this, and each time the breaks are shorter, the climaxing more powerful. It’s left you with a clit three times its natural size, and you have to avoid touching it, lest you send yourself back into the throes again. Even through the back-arching, scream-inducing heights though, you manage to last only up until this morning in not giving into your Gogoat’s advances. It’s tried to persuade you an all manner of ways to oblige in rutting, but you’ve held strong. Until this morning.  
You’re deep in the drink of sleep after passing out from the most recent stint of persistent pleasure, but it isn’t a welcome rest this time. You’re back in time, strapped down to the breeding chair for the first time. The blindfold is on, but your dream has you viewing your predicament from the third person, so you can see when the Scolipede enters the room, and you get a perfect view of its proboscis as it plunges down into your unwelcoming depths. There’s a gentle arousal in the peripheries, though, and you’re deep enough into the dream that you don’t have the social conventions tying you down… So the imagery isn’t revolting. It’s only the fact that you’re tied down that bothers you.  
Little shivers of pleasure roll up your spine as you watch, as you almost feel the short thrusts the Scolipede jerks up into your slit. You can feel your real body- the one that’s sleeping- take shorter breaths in response to your feelings, and it makes you dizzy, even here in your dreams. Unlike the real Scolipede, the one that your mind has conjured up continues to slap its underbelly against your body, and each rapid-fire clap is adding to the coiling sensation in your loins. Faster, faster, you swear you can feel it inside you for real…  
And then you’re awake, aware, and connecting the dots even as your body is jostled by the Gogoat perched over you, narrow prick knocking at your womb ever so urgently. Splayed out on your belly, the Mount Pokémon has you caught beneath him, and he’s in a flurry of motion, a jack-hammer that- now that you’re awake- is so much more pleasurable than it bears deserving. You’re angry though, and you push up onto your elbows with the intention of knocking the Gogoat off of you. He, however, has a different idea of how your present situation is going to go.  
He’s never done this before, but the vines that sprout from his back snare your wrists and wrench them out from under you, tossing you down onto your face, but keeping your bottom wedged up in the air, flush to his groin. The Gogoat bleats threateningly, wrenching his forelimb hold around your hips so that you bounce off each other and his tip presses more firmly to your womb. The vines lead your hands behind your back, fastening them there with a coiling knot from one. The other retreats…  
Only to find the tightness of your rear and worry itself inside. The invasive tendril winds itself deep, and is joined by another two tendrils soon after, thrusting a three-beat canter into your guts with no consideration for your permission. So much of the past three months has been trauma, so much of it has been a labor that leaves you beaten and stunned into terrified obedience, that you had been willing to let the Gogoat be forgiven for the betrayal. He’d been needy, but thus far unkind when you turned him away. Now that even he has resorted to using you, you break.  
Your body is responding with trembling praise, encouraging the Gogoat to resume its rampant abuse, and he does so with greedy abandon. But you… You’re weeping with such strength that you find it impossible to breathe between the racking sobs. Even when they fade into a mixture of moans too, you’re never far from shivering in your renewed trauma, broken on the inside as much as the outside now. The pleasure eventually turns the tide, but your awareness has gone. All you know right then and there, is how good it feels when his scruffy groin grinds down your engorged clit, how your walls spasm in reply to the Gogoat’s penetration into your womb. How your eyes roll back into your skull when you feel the textured flare of his crown lock inside you and shoot the clinging mess of his orgasm there…  
And how the second climax strikes you stupid when you feel the vines inside your stretched ass bunch up and swell, shooting a rush of sticky seed pods into your churned up depths. You’ve been lost to the contractions of your own unending bliss, so the Gogoat’s left free to fuck you for a terribly long time before your captors finally interrupt. They shoo him off of your come-bloated body, gather you up amid your seizure-like throes, and whisk you off to Arceus knows where.

* * *

When you come to from the affliction of pleasure, you can’t remember if the men who came and got you even bothered to put the blindfold over your eyes. Part of you feels like you recall sterile gray hallways, but another part of you is very sure that you’re just making it up. Whatever the case may be, they’ve moved you, and you’re now facing a ceiling that looks similar to your cell’s, only larger in its width and breadth. You can hear the familiar squelching of Pokémon coupling nearby, so you start to push up into a seated position to gain your bearings.  
Only you find you can’t. The moment you sit up, you’re dragged back down onto the bed you’re in, gasping, by the subtle rub of your labia against your clit. It’s maddening, because this is the worst of it so far. You struggle through almost biting your own tongue off to look down your body… And see a Parasect twitching away between your legs. The shape’s all wrong though. The red and orange cap looks too long, too narrow to be a Parasect- or even a Paras for that matter.  
Before you’re able to string together any logic, your vision is consumed by a massive hand and it drags your body, head first, to the edge of the bed where you’re forced to tip back and look upside down. You manage to focus on a flash of silver, and then you’re drifting back into the haze of trauma, lulled by the hypnotic sway of the glittering pendulum at eye level. You stay this way even after the shining thing has disappeared, and your vision fills with the startlingly humanesque shape of an uncut cock bumping up against your lips.  
The Hypno has your faculties ensnared, and it lets you make the lazy decisions on how to approach the gentle insistence at your slack jaw, while it contents itself to roll and knead at your breasts until milk dribbles between its fingers. The ministrations are learned and kind, and it leaves you panting against its cock, sucking down the pheromones there with every shallow breath. You bring your arms up, drearily guiding the hooded tip into your mouth, and when the taste of this Pokémon touches your tongue, you swear you’re in love.  
You work your tongue between the skin and crown, licking and suckling with a fever, groaning against the Hypno’s shaft as it lets you drag it deeper in your own time. It doesn’t bother to thrust nor jerk- your ministrations are enough to see to its pleasure, and it responds only with the twitching of its length every now and again. You’re driven to shove its whole cock down your throat, but are distracted by this pursuit when the Hypno’s hands flee your breasts. Content to blow the Psychic Pokémon without its aid to your pleasure, though, you drag the brunt of its thick erection as far into your mouth as you can- as if rooting him in your face will bring you closer together.  
Hypno’s moved close enough that when you push it back to suck air into your burning lungs, it’s difficult around the thick of its choking cock. You manage a lungful before its chosen to gag you on its own this time, but that’s not all. You’re vaguely aware of two different prodding sensations- one to either hole between your legs. Neither provide you much time to consider their intentions nor details, as all three of your major orifices are surreptitiously filled by a variety of shapes of rutting members.  
Still far beneath the fuck-crazed waves of the Hypno’s spell, your walls clamp down against the invaders with welcoming flutters of anticipatory glee, and the two participants respond with their gratification in turn.  
“Draaaagonair…”  
“Scizor! Sciiizor!”  
Maybe you’ll recall those Pokémon later, when you’ve had the chance to come down from your high, but for the time being, you could care no less about them, or their vaguely harmonious tones that might clue you into their genders. The three of them work in time with one another, a cadence of slapping flesh with you at their center. Only when the… It’s the Scizor, you think, on account of the familiar sensation of carapace… Scizor starts to rut your feminine depths with full-bodied crashes, does it occur to the sliver of you that’s still conscious, that both Pokémon at your southernly depths are large.  
You’re climaxing suddenly, brought on by an errant caress to your tortured clit. When you’re kept there, however, you begin to thrash, baser instincts sending you into panic mode in order to escape the too-high heights and its consistency in your veins. As strong as you abruptly are by the adrenaline that throws you free of the Hypno’s hypnosis, you’re pinned in place by all three Pokémon, and remain bound by their appendages in you. A blinding warmth pools around your clit, and it feels like someone’s closed their fist around it- even when you know that it’s too small for something like that. The sensation does not morph into anything else as you continue to find yourself strangled by the Hypno’s shaft, though, and you stay there, stuck in the actual torture of an orgasm so powerful you black out without warning.

* * *

A musky salt permeates your mouth when you snap back to reality. Blearily, you blink away the disorientation of unconsciousness, and sit up to a stomach that’s drawn taut with an unknown filling, and the Hypno from earlier now buried hilt deep between your slickened petals. That, in and of itself, would not have been so alien given your life recently. What has you reeling from a combination of rousing nerves and revelations, is a blushing, gasping Breloom bouncing up and down the length of that red-and-orange patched mushroom-head you recall seeing before you passed out.  
The Hypno’s pace is slow in you, but it’s got one hand wrapped about the Breloom’s middle, and is working it up and down the spotted shaft with an abusing speed. The other hand remains closed around the mushroom Pokémon’s neck, a thumb pressed between its lips. You try to make sense of it, but your nerves are coming alive with their return to consciousness, and you’re back in the clutches of impossible heights before you connect all the puzzle pieces in place. You’re so swiftly lost to the bliss that you disappear into the black again, and this time, you don’t wake up until you’re back in your cell with the Gogoat.

* * *

While you’re out, though, the Hypno doesn’t stop its use of you and the Breloom. The Parasect’s parasitic fungus has left you with a gift, and its temporary fruits sprout from the tender swell of your clit. That is to say, of course, that you’ve grown a temporary pseudo-penis of your own, and all the roots of the mushroom-cock deliver the sensations it experiences right into your host body as the Breloom is railed along its length. The Hypno ups the ante amid the Breloom’s choked gasps of strenuous rapture, and when the Breloom’s hilted to your unconscious form, the roots of your passenger parasite detach, left deposited into the Breloom the same way that the Parasect was in you those weeks ago.  
It’s when this happens that the Hypno finally sets its tasks aside- placing the stuffed Breloom onto the ground so it might wander away and rest- and focuses on its own deriving of pleasure from your welcoming, unconscious body. Even in your dreams you can feel the Psychic Pokémon’s motions. You might as well be awake for all the detail your dreams provide. It works against you in swift smacks of its flesh to yours, but it doesn’t bother wasting its time in dragging your coupling out. The Hypno’s release is swift coming and long-lived, flooding the nooks and crannies between the Scizor’s eggs in your womb. When enough of it has smoothed your belly to a familiar fatness, the Hypno dislodges itself from your greedy depths…  
_To make room for the Centiskorch that follows_.


	10. Sleep with the Fishies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've done your best, but you can't help but feel like it's not enough for your captors. Your employers. The only way you think this can go, is if you give them your all. So you do.

You are lost in a sea of memory when the blazing centipede makes its debut. It trundles in with a rotation of cascading limbs, forward portion of its body reared up as it swivels its head around the room. The burning antennae twitch and flutter with all sorts of perceived sensory information, and when their dissection of the room’s occupants narrows itself down onto you, it can smell the Scizor’s clutch… And the Hypno that had, in its mind, wasted the effort to fertilize. It locomotes over with smooth consecutive steps, lowering its broad eyes down to inspect your lower extremities, unfamiliar with your strange appearance… But when it quickly surmises you must just be another Scizor on account of your smell, it rears back up and cycles around, snipping you free of your restraints.  
The Centiskorch moves with a supple purpose, coiling around the table you’ve been kept still on, gathering your unconscious form into its sweltering grasp. Coils upon coils of its furnace underbelly swaddle you in an embrace that- through your aimless drifting in the tides of sleep- wards off the sterile chill of the place you’re captive in. It takes no consideration for its movements, and therefore is not gentle… But neither does it take unnecessary steps to inflict cruelty upon you. You’re maneuvered so its face is near yours and- while your legs remain captive in its segments- your uncovered rump is on display near its tail.  
Rearward antennae smolder, then snuff out in expectation that your unexpectedly soft carapace might be sensitive to the heat, and pincers there begin to flutter. Together, pincers and antennae alike move an extruding network of string around an emerging proboscis from its tail-tip between them, forming a ball with which it starts to fill. From its head to the base of its working tail, the Centiskorch shudders with each pump into the sac it’s pursuing to completion, and when it appears to have finished, the proboscis retracts from the stringy pouch, manipulators turning its opening until it meets up with your egg-laden rump, and seals it there.  
Warm and unaware as you are, there’s no protestations on your behalf when the Centiskorch adjusts its grip on you so that your legs are spread. Priming its steaming proboscis to your slick cleft, the burning Pokémon works it into you with ease, nestling up to its base so that all four antennae curl around your hips, front and back. Pincers taking care to not crush you, the proboscis gently wicks away at your womb, trying to rid the clutch within you of the Hypno’s seed so that you- the Scizor it thinks you are- can use the sac of its own seed to fertilize on your own time.  
When its thickened crown cannot breach into your womb, however, it lets out a frustrated chitter, coils tightening down on you with a threat it knows you cannot rise to. Try as it might, it cannot wedge itself in without risking that you lost the precious clutch within, and so it jerks itself in and out with a furious hiss, spending the latter half of its own fertile seed into you until you’re sweating from the heat of it, and soaked all down your legs from the surplus provided.

* * *

You are awake sometime later, none the wiser to the Centiskorch’s efforts, unaware of the Parasect’s terrifying effects on a human host, and, as you try to gain your bearings, becoming more and more at ill-ease with the knowledge that you’re not in your own room anymore. For all they had taken from you, the fact that they had the decency to leave you in familiarity when they were done with you was a small comfort. With it ripped away, the sticky state of your entire lower half is almost beneath your notice.  
It’s only when you try to move your limbs that you’re pulled from the dissection of the room. You’re bound- not just by the limbs, but in your entirety. A blackout mask has been fitted to the full of your face, where you feel your nostrils stretched around twin tubes that are already gently smoking you out with the sickly sweet stench of the same stupid drug as always. You can feel a pair of hoses near either corner of your mouth, and when you test them, one is water, the other some bland flowing paste that must be what they think you’ll eat.  
It’s not just the blinding mask they’ve got you done up in though. You can feel the familiar rhythm of the pumps toiling away at your breasts, and the asynchronous suction at your clit too. The pleasure from both ministrations slinks to the forward of your mind at the behest of the increased dose of the drug, and for a moment, you’re lost in it, forgetful of your attempts to glean your surroundings. It takes serious effort to break through the toe-curling haze, but you manage to find a focus and continue gaining your senses of your predicament.  
You’re spread-eagle, bound at the wrists and ankles. Worse yet, as you try to move your head, to bend your knees, to flex your elbows… You find that there are tethers there too, fastening you to the pose with no wiggle room. You get a strange feeling of vertigo when you stop moving, and then it hits you- along with a sobering stab of panic. Though you can’t see where you are, now that you’re aware of the feeling all over, there’s no other explanation. You’re weightless in a water tank of some sort, stretched like some living display. For the life of you, you cannot figure out why they would do this, but you’ve seen the news reports from when the Mewtwo experiments were televised… And this, you imagine, must be something to the effect of that.  
You thrash for what feels like hours, until the knotting muscles in your stomach rise to fever pitch, and you’re forced to sag in your restraints and assess how you’re to give birth. Maybe it was the fear that made you miss the tubes hooked up between your legs… But your answer as to how comes with the first involuntary orgasm at the escape of several eggs. They slide free of you and into their respective umbilicals beyond, where you can only imagine they go. You labor through the colossal clutch from the Dragonair in your hindquarters, and by the time you feel empty of them, you’re so blind from the drugs and the rippling sensation from the Scizor’s bumping down and out, that it’s less a labor, and more a delight.  
Now over, however, a low, mechanical ping echoes through your mask, and the food hose inches up into your lips. You drag your fractured conscience through the come-slick fog, and manage to oblige without protest. You “eat” until you’re like to burst, then the mask chimes again and you’re left in the pitch to be drained of your breast milk, and to heal.

* * *

How long, do you think, they’ll keep you hooked up like this? It’s been several food and water cycles, and yet you’re not pruny, and you haven’t been moved. You have to go to the bathroom some time, and you sure as hell aren’t going to float in it.

* * *

The next chime for food rouses you from a nap, and when you’re finished then, it’s more effort to hold it, than it is to let go… And it’s when you do that you get the sense you’ve been hooked up with this exact intention already. There comes a dawning horror when you connect all the various dots, and come to the conclusion…  
They’re not going to take you out of the tank again. You’re not going to taste fresh air or work your job at the casino. You’re not going to see your Pokémon, let alone your family. You won’t even see the orderlies or the gray walls of your cell. As you feel the tubes within your walls retreat, the last of your hope and your sanity fade in the wake of what replaces them. Slippery appendages delve into you and meander a slow pace, as your mask vibrates with the murmur of “Mantiiiine”.  
  
This is your life now.  
  
And you’re never getting out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! It's over? Already?! If you've read this far, then yes. This story has come to its inevitable end. But don't worry! It's not the last of its kind, and I'm already working on the next part of the collection. As much as I loved writing this one, I can't help but feel I lost the plot a bit, getting over-excited and slapping ALLTHEPOKEMON into the last few chapters. I'm hoping to focus on only a handful this next time, as well as a good, if brief, exploration into the ramifications of this smut-filled story's revelations. If you've come for the smut, I hope you stay long enough for the story. I really think you'll like the next one. Now, I've blathered on enough! Leave your thoughts and love, and I'll chat atcha next time!


End file.
